The Bungalow Inn

….
The early hours,
midnight to dawn;
stragglers come in
on their own.

The parties are over;
they’ve come to get sober;
a last place to stop,
before home.

It’s the Bungalow Inn,
where haggles begin;
the chagrin,
of being alone.

The end of a day;
the start to a new;
the Bungalow Inn,
to sunrise.

Strangers in wranglers,
denims and Levis,
a glint of look to their eyes;

it’s the virtual din
at the Bungalow Inn,
where they’re given
to take up in lies.

None takes a lover,
their frolic all over,
when bars close,
there is no surprise.

The cowboys come in
dressed to their denim,
for the coffee, and burgers,
and fries.

And each will go home,
to a home all alone;
none to a lover,
un-sober.

For stragglers and hagglers,
cowpokes in Levis,
the lone life, their own lives,
contrive.
….

©2016, Marvin Welborn
2 March 2016

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