WAITING AT THE BAR

Time doesn't stop here.
And it's good that it does not stop here.
So that my minute of waiting pretending to be high society
doesn't get lost in anxiety. I’m not from high society.

The drinks fog the windowpane.
A car passes by, infinitely, following its lane,
in the light of its headlights that try with bright
to ward off the darkness of the falling night.

The bar begins to fill with hope. At least by my side
Drinks roll onto from the sidewalk to inside,
elbowing each other in search at that bar
of the warmth of dreams, looking for the first star.

Outside it's cold. The drizzle adorns the cars,
passing in perfect undulations, painted by the cars.

As if it were possible to animate a stream of steel
and make it alive, snaking its colors the way I feel.

Through the curves of a lonely man's imagination.
Without notion, the bar was my kind of station.

She didn't come. I drink alone. Looking at my feet.
Only the light from a shop across the street
remains shining, as if it were possible to design a meet,
to compile into a single lit lamp all the vibrations, of an empty seat,
in that night, the last stand in anyone's loneliness
looking at the empty seat. No woman to meet.

She didn't come. I drink alone. Looking at my feet.
Only the light from a shop across the street
remains shining, as if it were possible to design a meet,
to compile into a single lit lamp all the vibrations, of an empty seat,
in that night, the last stand in anyone's loneliness
looking at the empty seat. No woman to meet.