James Feichthaler
Last Call
Like wind-blown trees, their shaky hands seem stayed,
Relaxed and grounded, wrapped around shot-glasses.
No drunken demons able to persuade
Age-frozen bones into persuasive passes,
They stare into oblivia of space,
Recalling stalled oblivia of time;
Old memories, old lovers, every face
A vantage point of grief that leads them home.
Nobody bothers them and no one cares —
Those grey-haired fathers may as well be dead;
Death’s poster-boys, the Reaper’s hairless heirs,
All past their primes, all readying for bed:
They might as well be dead, as drinks come round,
For no one moves, and no one makes a sound.
James Feichthaler’s poetry has appeared in magazines and e-zines such as Contemporary Rhyme, The Raintown Review, Candelabrum and others, and he is currently pushing his book-length collection of poems on unsuspecting publishers across the country. He is also an avid musician, whose work can be found here at http://www.myspace.com/allieshiphop.
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