POETRY
Comfortably Numb
Hello, is there anyone in there?
It’s last call, the hour when everyone’s drunk and the bar turns marvelous or hellish, depending on the spin rate of the mind.
Tabs are being closed and Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb swirls over glassy-eyed patrons slouched in black booths. Hello, is there anyone in there?
Smoke writhes and snakes from neglected cigarettes and dancers offer goodbye kisses as they sing, Just nod if you can hear me Is there anyone home?
Strangers prepare to pour into cabs together, headed for seedy hotels and sex with no names. I’ll need some information first Just the basic facts Can you show me where it hurts?
There’s a reprieve from the bitter night, someone buys the house a final round. The patrons wobble and stumble to their feet, blind and boisterous, nameless and numb, toast this moment of blustery solitude, and together, as a room of lost souls, they sing: The child is grown The dream is gone I have become comfortably numb.





