The First

The ground is cold under slush and ice tonight, I'm inside at the moment, but my bones still ache like I was outside.  I think I need a rest, but the call of a crowd on a telephone, is going to lead me out to the bar before I go home.  I think I'm going to have another drink and claim I'm quitting it all again.  One more drink after the setting sun can only warm me deep within.  One more mile of dirty track and 3 avenues to get home after some self abuse, sometimes it's better to be a seclusive soul.  I shook my feet under the table in a puddle of mettled ice, and the glasses grazed the table top a percussive sound i like.  I think this beats being surrounded strangers these are friends I do not mind, we will drink, we will gorge till we are blind.  I should not start off any record with a list of my defeats, I rather begin summing up an allegory to stir up inner heat.  Till my heart is left burning and I have risen my seat, it is an inner dialogue I can never escape.  I've made it home into my bed, or so I hope I will be, I speak of it in a future tense, in hopes it will be real, and as pen shakes across this pad, the homeless man in the aisle sleeps.  I won't speak, he won't speak, I'll not sleep, because as my eyelids are turning black the dialogue returns.   My brains excited by this dialect it trips upon each verb, to imagine that someone actually loves me, and these words were hers.