Nancy L. Meek


I saw his lips again
swimming in my shot glass
his blood and mud-caked mouth
begging someone to stop the pain.

I heard his screams
pouring from metal strings
on Led Zeppelin guitars in a jukebox
in a corner just out of reach.

I felt his blood again
oozing between my fingers
as clumsy bartenders splashed
more pleas into my tired brain.

“Please! Stop the pain!”
Can’t anyone hear him?
Someone get a medic!
But the bombs were too loud.

I tasted his fear again
booming from a slammed door
as me and Janis Joplin
worked hard to stop his screams.