The Radio In The Bar

It’s six o’clock says the radio, 

On a breeze, the evening wafts in. 

The girl at the bar looks lonely, 

And I order a whiskey and gin.

“Tell me, what’ya doin’ here,”

I say, sliding the drink to her hand.

She smiles and turns to face me,

“I could tell, though you won’t understand.”

It’s eight o’clock says the radio,

And she hasn’t paused for breath,

She slurs through tales and memories,

About life, loving and death.

“Listen, we’re here for a reason,”

I say, “the reason I think is the same,”

“This game of life is burning us,”

“And we got caught in its flames.”

It’s midnight says the radio,

The barman again checks his phone,

“When all is said and done,”

She says, “we’re truly all alone.”

“All alone we may be, but I’ll order a taxi for two,”

“Tonight I’ll keep this memory,” I say,

“A memory which looks like you.”