273/365: A Bitter Cup
I am served coffee by children in pubs
where I once, over years, drank myself drunk
and stumbled out in the dark to illegal cars.
The world is old people and children now,
the elders sipping coffee
and the children tipping into cups.
I miss the never-was,
the unseen wars I might have won,
the unknowns around which I sightlessly bent my orbit.
Impotent regret is a bitter cup
while I listen to local jazz
and watch children pull taps behind the bar.