UPDATE: Thursday, July 5, 2012 8:58:07 AM. I just noticed that this poem was marked private, from the onset. I must have been embarrassed, or ashamed, or I didn't want people to worry. Opening it up now.
By the time the bar closes
I will be four hours older
and four hours drunker.
I will be four hours more disillusioned
and four hours more lonely
By the time I stumble along the aimless streets
nicely buzzed and nicely angrily alone
heading for a cluttered home that matches my cluttered mind
I will be four hours more destitute and angry
and I can only hope to pass out before I have time to think
and remember and ruminate on the shaggy sorry state that
I have created for myself.
by the time the bar closes
I will be four hours closer
to an answer I don’t want to know