I met a
hard and hardy buccaneer
of sorts
who criss-crossed the world
doing deeds alternatively
gallant or distasteful
depending on the lay of the land
He had a
large glass with ice and whisky
and hearty smile below
his mustache
and gently yellow teeth
that were almost friendly
as his lips curled apart
He had blue
eyes, technically speaking,
though they could nary seem blue
in this environment;
they came across as black
but glowing and pulsating with
hard-won worldly wisdom
He fancied
conversation, and spun tale
after tale,
most of them mostly true,
as he put it,
and truth be told,
they were delightful to listen to
Even the hard
stories, of terrible things,
of treacheries and betrayals
of hard nights and hard losses
and hard times and awful trials
seen, seen through, and even done…
though he said it was only awful in retrospect
Wheels turned
And he related the turnings
into splendors and grandeurs
More vivid than paintings and movies
Gains gotten, gains spent, gains lost,
And memories remained
As the night
worn down and gave
way to the cracking of dawn
He got up to get away, evident
he would vanish henceforth forever
as if in a dream
that perhaps didn't happen
He settled
the bill with the bartender
And reality came back into the fold
He strode to depart
But his stride slowed into a hesitation
and he turned back
And he said:
"My biggest regret is that for 57 years
I thought the best things were to come
And I didn't enjoy things as they unfolded
I've done a lot, but lived very little of it
Because my eyes were always were 'round the next bend"
And with that
And then, gone
and the bartender kindly
ignored me as he closed up shop
dusted and put things in their places
And despite myself
I thought of a coming torrent of decades