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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=366556" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Man At The Bar</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Man At The Bar</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I saunter toward the bar of my neighborhood tavern<br>For my weekly libation and some solitude in reading.<br>Tinseled ads dangle down like stalagtites in dim cavern<br>In this dark refuge, where world’s woes, no one’s heeding</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the bar sit’s a man alone, o’er long necked bottle, working-mans hands hover<br>Eyes unfocused, staring unseeingly, deep into space<br>While I, a book in one hand and cash for my pint in the other<br>Wait for my drink, when I sense his sad gaze drift round to my face</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The palpable pull of his gaze makes me turn, nod politely and say “hi”<br>And his eyes slowly shift down to the book in my clasp<br>“Sir, “ said he, “might I have a peek at your book? ” A reticent request, soft as a sigh<br>“of course, ” said I, and placed my dog-eared edition in his work-calloused grasp</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A quick, cursory page riffling, then a wry wrinkled look<br>The tattered book proffered back to me with a sad sibilant sigh<br>“Ya know, ” he said to me “I can’t read a damn word in that book? ”<br>Embarrassment, mixed with defiance, in his averted, anguished eye</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Squaring his shoulders as if shaking off a great leaden burden<br>Turned once more to me, and continued his confessional tale<br>My ale, slow arriving gave me time to pay full attention<br>And his long moored frustrations, once untied took full sail</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Dropped out of school quite young, ”he said<br> “a waste of his time, ” he thought then<br>“Had he the wisdom then, that now had home in his head<br>He would have better used, the book and the pen”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Peeling the label from the brown bottle in his clutch<br>While staring at the now, but more likely looking back at his past<br>Said he could read “Walmart, ” “stop” and “yield” and the such<br>But the people around him, always found him out at last</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Said he always got by doing menial jobs and hard labor<br>Raised a fine family by the sweat of his brow<br>But the one thing he lacked, and never would savor<br>Was to read to his kids, and in turn teach them how</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The barmaid approached, my popcorn and ale on a tray<br>I paid my tab and placed my hand on his shoulder<br>I briefly told him of the many reading programs available today<br>And not let the desire to read, simply grow older</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As I, with contented sigh, settled into my secluded, corner booth<br>Ready and eager to forage anew, through fictions and dominions<br>I glanced up before reading, and felt the pangs of a sad, somber truth<br>That my new friend had many hidden, and unknown companions</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The plight of this man, and the too many just like him<br>Evoke pity and admiration, both in their turn<br>How sad to be locked in a non-reading prison<br>Oh what one can miss, when one fails to learn</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+Whalen">David Whalen</a><div class=q>
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I saunter toward the bar of my neighborhood tavern
For my weekly libation and some solitude in reading.
Tinseled ads dangle down like stalagtites in dim cavern
In this dark refuge, where world’s woes, no one’s heeding

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