the last bus

The last bus This is a day for us losers, no this is not about the climate, from my window it looks like doing well, a dollop of sun there and a splash of rain there, it is no asking for anyone’s permission With losers, I mean us who have managed to get old, but living wildly and not going for longevity This makes us miserable because we have nothing to look back on and say, sure I did that It is not that we didn’t try to make a mark, but Booze and women got in the way, conquest a whore in every port Some of us tried to make a mark by scribbling Our thoughts on paper, exposed our tiring vulnerability for all to see, only to discover that No one wanted to know gave a , because One needs a name to make it worthwhile to Read your missives So here we are getting pissed every night Blaming fate for our misery when the bitter truth is we’re not talented enough to be Recognized For some reason, we continue to write for We know what else to do; reflect on that we Know God is punishing us for sins we were not aware of, as we whored our way through life