HEATHEN HEARTH

It wasn’t a given, this hole in my chest, the empty cavity, the maw calls my name, but lands on ears, never-hearing, for fearing, I could care. The phonograph was playing an up-tempo tune, something on the order of a polka. The melody stuck with me as I started my spiral, headlong into oblivion, riding the crusty crest to cremation.

An out-stretched hand reached for me, if only for a moment, before it was rudely rescinded. What could I do? 

I vacated, at no one’s request, because the outcome was understood. 

I wandered the streets, wet and inhospitable...ducked into doorways, or hid under awnings, making my way, where?, I had no idea. The night and I were mutually declining, growing darker by the second, and the fog rolled in on us both. 

I staggered into the only light I saw, and found myself enveloped in red. Where was this place?…and the same tune played on the jukebox. There were six patrons and a bartender. I stood and stared for what seemed the longest time, until someone noticed, and suggests that I...sit my ass down.

I found a stool and did as I was told. I asked for four-fingers of something strong, but expected two...but then, the bartender...he, complied. 

I curled up around my drink and partook…

the heathen hearth,

this empty chest

doth burn,

through heartless vent,

this elixir earned

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Woody Hue

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