the last bus

That is a day for us losers. No, this is not about the climate
it does well, a dollop of sun there and a splash of rain there, not asking for anyone’s permission
With losers, I mean us who have managed to get old
but living wildly and not going for longevity
That makes us miserable because we have nothing
to look back on and say, sure,  I did that
It is not that we didn’t try to make a mark, but
Booze and women got in the way, conquest
 a whore in every port
Some of us tried to make a mark by scribbling
Our thoughts on a sheet of paper exposed our
tiring vulnerability for all to see, only to discover
 that no one wanted to know gave a fuck, because
One needs a name to make it worthwhile to
Read your missives
So here we are getting pissed every night
Blaming fate for our misery when the bitter truth
is we’re not talented enough to be
Recognized
For some reason, we continue to write for
We know what else to do; reflect on that we
Know God is punishing us for sins we were not aware
 of as we whored our way through life.