Coarse Streets, Warm Hearth

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Drops of vodka leave his lips,
careless and suicidal 'chuters
aiming straight for wooden floors.
He shakes vehemently,
beating back the bitterness that creeps
onto the surface of his tongue - rough as earth.
The near-empty pub shines, like warm lanterns
onto the streets, covered in sheets of unwelcoming snow.
He likes it here, despite the lack of company:
how the bartender laughs with all he has,
body, beard, and everything;
how the young lass passing the drinks and victuals
actually gives the time of day, at this time of night
to the lonely souls huddling towards the fire light;
how the tavern fellows, huddled over
their half-finished meals, sip at their alcohol-filled mugs,
speaking of grand imaginings of a better world.
It is not much, but it is alive
with love, warm and not entirely induced without vodka.
The lass passes by, picks a plate, and places it down
in front of him, giving a kind smile -
yes, this warmth is something like vodka.
A deep red meets his eyes from the plate - borscht!
Wonderful - it speaks to him of home,
of a mother who loved him,
and a brother who idolized him,
and a father who led them to believe in better days.
Though he is alone, he knows this
is one of those better days.
He can sleep, dreaming of better days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm not too familiar with Eastern/Central European culture or norms, so forgive me if any who reads this feel there is much stereotyping. The word is "borscht". The word itself seems to bring to mind a hearty and warm meal. Hope I brought that home.

Cheers!

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