He takes another crystal cup
from the rack of containers at his side,
wiping it clean,
filling it with tonic and gin,
and all that liquid gold,
then putting it on the counter
for the newest sad sack fresh through the door,
full of sorrow
and ready to drink away his woes.
Sometimes he wishes that it was him
sitting on the chair in front of his place,
emptying his wallet
in exchange for emptying his mind
and his clouded heart
of all their demons.
He has bills to be paid
and debts to be remade.
He wishes that he was the one
talking with this understanding bartender,
who just happens to be such a good listener.
But he knows that can never be.
He has to be the one
who hears all the woes and troubles,
the one who is perpetually prepared
to offer his moral support
in times of need, disaster, and even any mild confusion.
He can't be the one to break or bawl,
can't afford to crumble or fall.
He has to stand, always, an invincible pillar,
reliable, sturdy, robust, and tall.
No matter what demons he has,
or what worries he has that endlessly gnaw.