Best Dressed Death

The Millers

I am reminded of the man at the bar
Who has forgotten who his kids are.
There, swallowing tequila straight
Same call as every night his fate.
To me, he blames it on the whore
Claims she pushed him out the door,
But he can’t provide the reason why.
And, I am certain she would deny
His musings to me this late hour.
They are causing my gut to sour.
But, that is how he believes it to be.
He says he won’t go back, you see
That he’s still in Rye, there living.
Only now, looking in me to find forgiving.
He says he’s certain they will find
She has lost her fucking mind.
And, it is only himself he’s hurting
While hiding behind his convertible curtain,
To save him from his mirrored face.
He won’t look across and find disgrace,
Instead sets his eyes on the last of the bottle.
All of his duplicitous life he’s set to throttle
In a dull thudded break of dawn.
His head heavy under his crown,
He buries each night, repeated.
The music, he says she cheated.
If only the radio had played that night,
There would be nothing, nothing right.