"Barstool Therapy," by Mary Chittle

I trudge up to the bar

and sink into a seat.

“What’ll it be ma’am?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“Been a rough day?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe."

Glass thuds on the bar top,

“try me, we’ll see.”

I pour out my sorrows,

they flow faster than beer.

So much has gone wrong,

without time for a tear.

The barman doesn’t pry,

seek each sordid detail.

Simply lets me talk

and air my sad tale.

When I reached the end,

he smiled at my plight

“I find things aren’t so bad,

in the next morning’s light.”

“Go home, get some rest.

Say your prayers, bow your head,

and see how you feel,

when you rise from your bed.”

Turns out he was right,

it wasn’t such a defeat.

But I did have a headache,

from that whiskey, neat.