Kelly’s Visited in Remembering

Years ago, oh, must be about thirty-five or so,

I wrote a poem about the early morning hardcore

drinkers at Kelly’s Westport Inn. Since then, I

myself have tried many times to drink my world

into the numbness of oblivion. (Damn near did it

too.) Fortunately for me, I decided to sober up and

make my way across life’s arduous divide in a more

straight and steady line. So many have died trying.

Though the nameless faces at Kelly’s may have

changed over time, the deleterious tendencies of

mankind remain. And that old man I referred to

in my verse back then, the custodian swishing his

sopping mop of Lysol across the floor to disinfect

the putrid excesses from the night before, I imagine

with a degree of certainty even he has been replaced

dozens of times or more.

Chris Hanch 6-7-18