The Night Café

(Van Gogh)

Sad, sleeping hoodlums in an empty room
while nothing to think about but the world—

Gaslights hissing and threatening
to side with darkness any second—

Red and green walls, sinister passions,
holding heavy light up to the eyes—

A casual devil with green hair,
his thumbs in his pockets, knows his customers
are coasting. He'll not sell another drink tonight.

Bright flowers out of place on the mantel,
like a stained-glass window in an alley—

This is the place ideas go to die.
Everything touches but is isolated.

Everyone who comes in here
is forever on his own.

Copyright © 2005 Ron Houchin All rights reserved
from Among Wordless Things
Wind Publications
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission