O'Hara's Bar

O’Hara’s Bar As I sat at on a stool in O’Hara’s bar I was joined by a local old guy, he called for some whiskey and then called for some more till his confidence caught my eye. He asked me some question on loneliness, or where was the loneliest place, was it out in the desert or on the cold poles or somewhere in deep outer space I left my apology with the old man as the barkeep looked at the time, and got back on the stage to pluck my guitar and continue my well rehearsed rhyme. As I stared through the smoke at the maddening crowd, who bought my favours with gin, I looked at the clothes on the strangers back, and knew one day I could be him. The stranger stands up and he’s feeling the glow from the beer and the whiskey he’s swilled, and he puts on his hat and passes a tip to the barkeep who’s taken his bills. Then he say’s his goodbye as he touches his hat to a girl who is well past her prime, and he looks straight at me as he turns to go and his face is a lot like mine. He’s had his young dreams that blew like brown leaves off the tree that we call our life, he’s risen for work in the sun and the rain and gave his hard earned to his wife. He’s forgotten the days that turn into months that turn into year upon year, and became an old man that nobody heard as he sat at the bar with a beer. The loneliest place is in a mans head and not in the place that he walks, where nobody see’s him and nobody cares and nobody hears when he talks. He’s alone on the street and alone in his home where his wife has forgotten to smile, where she moans cause he’s out and she moans cause he’s in but she just wants a friend for a while. The preacher looked down at his cheap chipboard box that the rain beats on like a drum, and throws down some earth to bounce on the casket and hopes tomorrow brings sun. And his widow moans about her aching joints and rushes to get to the car, so she’s spared all this rain and tells the cab driver to take her to O’Hara’s bar. Were alone at our work and alone at the game and alone till we find ourselves dead, where nobody knows like the lonely old priest who’s loneliness screams in his head. As I sit on the stool and sing stale words and pluck at my battered guitar, the smoke fills my lungs and the gin fills my brain as I watch you in O’Hara’s Bar. DanLake