three a.m.

it's a smoke
filled room,
this life.
a bar full of
intoxicated strangers.
bumping elbows
and hips
with the unrich
and infamous.
there's music
from a jukebox,
the news
from a black
and white t.v.
hung precariously
in the corner
above the bottles.
there's a fat
man wiping
the wood in a red
vest
pushing bowls
of pretzels
against the ashtrays.
he shakes your hand
with a wet fist,
smiles and gets
you a drink.
you know everyone
here, you know
no one.
it's home, it's a
place to be
that isn't home.
it closes at three.
you can make it
until then.