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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