The Mop

I see him at the end of the bar
Lopsided, dripping
Off the counter
Oozing on to the floor
His hellos grab at people’s ankles
As they try to scramble by
I lean forward, watching
As every compliment he speaks
Sticks to the corner of his mouth
Leaving him to deliver
Only slurred sentences and broken promises
Swishing back and forth, over and over
A mop, his body tries to pick itself up again
But his arms and legs wage a civil war
Refusing to unionize
So he lays there alcohol scarred
Twitching in his whispers
He begins to cry and sing himself a lullaby
He, a homicide scene
Both the murderer and the victim
The crowd scoots away
From the growing crime scene
Refusing to look at him
In case to contaminate the location
Finally, the bouncers gather him
Holding him as he slops around in their arms
His protests bounce against their chest
As he swishes back and forth, over and over
Dropping on the doorstep
With a cup of coffee to find himself
I hear the bartender mention calling his wife
A lost child, he sits waiting on the doorstep
Hunching forward, knowing the sirens would be arriving soon

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