Walking home

Walking Home

Going home from the tavern, it’s gone non smoking
and for once I don’t smell like a walking ashtray, it’s
very late it has been snowing and I’m an unsteady
the wine was strong and I’m old, only a few stars out,
the rest have gone to a late A. A. meeting.

I listen to strange sounds, night is the day dreaming
muffled echoes of past’s voices and deep sighs, and
deep within me a sense of guilt I ought not go out so
much the tavern is not your place, I firmly tell myself
better than watching telly, my meek defense.

No streetlights, a temporary power failure; I thank
the sober stars reflecting light on snow. Near the house
my dog barks, but only once, greets me by the door
runs back to her mat on the floor, know she has slept
on the sofa, but I smile grateful for her fidelity.