Backroads

I love the sound of ice tinkling in a glass
As the warmth oozes slowly to my fingers.

I’m not much given to melancholy;
Imbibing sweet sorrow with good whiskey.
But I do wander roads I’ve traveled,
Revisiting past regrets for old times sake,
Not that I would ever learn.
Sadness is best left for empty bottles.

I round the ash of my cigar
With greater deliberation than I’ve used
When making many life decisions.
Any mistakes written in ashes
Are erased with a clean ashtray
And a fresh cigar.

Dim light, too much smoke and a sticky table.
Yes, thank you, I’ll have another.