Knuckle bones rattle secrets from a watery grave,
echoing of miserable nights and cold catacombs.
The crepuscular room smells of sweat and cigars--
stagnant and devastatingly melancholy.
He grasps the glass again and his throat wretches,
inundated but somehow unnumbed by the bitter burn,
brain screaming as though gouged with the namesake.
A tiny tidal wave claims the finger-etched bartop.
Like a shaman, he scries his future in the ice,
skittering aimlessly across imitation wood
before quietly melting away.