That drunken bottle brink Maverick; Who, some called ‘The Mayor’. In a Town in the middle of nowhere, a nowhere with a bustling past He sat in an old wooden chair with brandy in a tin cup. The rush from past always crowded the streets in his half awake memories. ‘Mayor’, they say as they pass him Mayor of deserted dreams searching for their way … Continue reading The Mayor #54 of 365 Poems