Or, suppose you're dying of cancer. You're at the border of delirium, with enough morphine in you to float a ship of fools, but not enough to sink your raft of pain. While you're waiting to go through customs, perhaps you stare at the ceiling, where the topics of your wondering are like a confetti of stars on a cold, country night. Here, at closing time, they're bottoms up in blossoms, and their one big wife is calling them home. They've come here from down the road, where they've been drinking all day at the Foxglove Inn and the Bee Balm Cafe.
Bar fights break out in the booths over last licks of nectar schnapps.
His buddies, high on hooch, will stagger home on a wing and a prayer. Tomorrow, they'll be up early, hung over at the doors of the Dew Drop Inn sucking down those Peach Blossom Specials. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out. I've covered unsightly seams with tear-duct tape. Plastered, I've coated walls with three coats of pain.