It was hot in the desert
a heat as sharp as the steel
of my financial defeat.

In the deep end of the bar
with sweats of alcohol
sticking my shirt to the seat,

I was done. I knew well
the way back home through
the familiar humiliation.

"Are you ready to submit?
to accept, on your knees,
the way to salvation?"

Why was I shaking then?
What was this invisible force
taking me back from my death?

"Do you want your doom?
or with a click of faith,
the same as the greatest greats?"

Today, notorious but not great,
in this vast colonial room,
I reflect back on that fork.

The weight of the future
is crushing my aging back
as I cry in the hallways at night.

The solace of the drink is gone,
and my friends are hissing
in the dark.