The old winter watering hole

 Grey english day colonizes the sky
Outside bar where beer and bragging meet age
Old stories of glory and clinginess to fixed identity
Broken purses in the garden stting there like labels
Not a coin but a spider

Understand the oldest part of yourself
striving to provoke some sort of virtue streak
hairs in his beard, white and passed
each one a plan in the past
matching the cloudy weather outside the bar

The addiction is not in your hand
It is already inside your veins
written into your blood like a hieroglyph
Jumping up and down when its overcast

You should see those old friends
Who had gone up to the taps
Dressed in their lives and aspirations
So they wouldn't have to give any long accounts
But how did they get here and what are they celebrating?