The last time I went to a bar was four years ago–
I was fifty and it was mid-summer, and my sister and I
ducked out of the heat into air-conditioned solace.
I was immediately asked for my identification to prove
I was old enough to have a beer–the grays like streaks of gold
under neon, perhaps–but she–the bartender–did not i.d. my sister

This trip through memory at six a.m. after being awake
three hours from the storm–has me wanting a beer
though I sit here waiting for my coffee–listening to it drip
the rain falling over the edges of leaf-lined gutters and
I think–my last beer I don’t remember when–my last glass of wine
one night when the Cubs broke Cleveland’s heart

2 thoughts on “

  1. I for one have never been asked for an ID. Perhaps due to my physical appearance or the choice of bars I patronize. My wife on the other hand certainly qualifies as a senior citizen and smiles with great glee whenever asked. Your post conjures up some good memories including my city losing a sports event. Thanks for your poetry.

    Liked by 1 person

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