Owed Liquor

There’s a roar coming from my bar tab,

it screams through the eyes of whoever’s working behind the bottles

and if I don’t pay up soon

I’ll be tossed out on the street.

Left out in the rain

where all the glasses are empty

and the harsh reality of being broke

can always catch you

when you’re out in the sidewalk.

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About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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