Piety Hollow
((The Old Bent Drunkard) (a poem))
Among the streets, in small framed houses
Stumbled an old bent man, far gone in drink,
In Piety Hollow
And here he lived, slept and wept. His mind
Leaped, back to those far-off days, as he’d
Wandered the streets, of Piety Hollow
Staggering, and begging with no regrets, he
Had left dreams behind him, unmet; lips that
Touched liquor, with no sentiment
Now leering into creepy faces, weary and wet
Restlessly he was dying, in his submerged world
In Piety Hollow
For all that it is worth—he was a fragile soul
Cursed; stumbling along in dingy halls, in rooms
With discolored curtains and windows
…snarling screams, from unknown voices
Passed lighted saloons, not to be remembered,
In Piety Hollow
His legs now weak, and wobbly—with gratitude,
He sought long sleep, in a sea of diluted faces
Hoping to find peace …
“There is much to life,” he thought “in this world.
Too bad, I just couldn’t find it, here
In Piety Hollow”
No: 2929 (4-18/2011)
