a vague recollection of a harder time

Struck a match and lit a smoke
in the barroom shithouse,
erased my name
from the bathroom wall.
I wobbled out and plugged
a few dollars into the juke box.
Played whatever decent
country songs were available.
The bartender thought I was sweet
and she poured me an extra scotch.
The bottle popper in her back pocket
pointed devilishly at the tramp stamp
on her lower back
and I hummed along with Shotgun Willie.
A fat gangster covered in tattoos
had also taken a shine to me.
He was a little dumb, but that was ok by me.
There'd be no fistfights that gloomy evening.

I haven't spent many nights like that,
but sometimes the world forces you into a corner
and between rounds of being pummeled
into a meat pancake,
the sardonic trainer gives you whiskey
instead of water
until you finally see
the folly of your ways.