the log-truck driver

By the bar
(between two black stools)
we shook hands

we shot the bull
on this and that:
candid confessions
kitchen-table philosophy

hours passed

the sun was sinking
into the country hills.
he had to get up at 4 am,
which may or may not
be earlier than students of Zen buddhism

I was bust
so he bought me the last beer,
as a Zen monk
might re-fill a friend's tea-cup