Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent Van Gogh
tends bar at my local pub

He diligently fills glasses
checks tables
flirts with women

And plays with his beard when he gets
a moment to himself
His eyes lost past the dark mahogany
Pastel paint dripping through his thoughts

He laughs with my mates
sharing stories and scoffing at love

He nods his head in welcome
when you thank him for your
fish and chips

He cleans each glass with care
And pours a perfect finish every time

He hears poorly even though
the place is never terribly crowded
You still must shout as he tips his head
to one side and squints his brow

His eyes never seem to listen
even if he may hear you

He says he lives nearby,
in passing conversation,
but I cannot imagine him
existing outside these
dark and framing walls

Except that once when
I saw him in San Francisco
He seems to confirm that he was there
but shows no memory of having been
Whenever talk leaves the
warm atmosphere of the pub
He brings his shoulders together as he shuffles his feet
He busies himself with anything
often dropping a pint or two
He changes topic maliciously
and always mentions he will be closing shop soon
even if we are already well past that time
We leave curtly and I tell myself
not to refer to such subjects
when next I see him

But in a drunken daydream,
a twisted inebriated curiosity
a pissed passion of knowing more
Always strikes me

and next I see him,
Jolly and Jovial,
as if I never angered him

never struck a chord
that painted him the wrong color