He skulks in a bar,
all silent & brooding,
a fading once-star,
bitter, bad mooding.
He calls for his drink
(the rum and the coke),
continues to think
as he lights up a smoke.
Between puffs and sips,
he contemplates things
such as coming to grips
with the contemplating.
Mobius Strip thoughts
keep looping, repeating,
he feels like he is caught
in moments too fleeting.
He's neither an island
nor is he a rock.
So looking for dry land,
the swimmer takes stock:
He's a poet, a drinker,
certified overthinker,
safety hook unlinker,
he's Titanic: a sinker.
And as his mind sinks
(it's up to its neck)
one last time it thinks:
"This guy is a wreck..."
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