shrimp night

it's all you
can eat shrimp night at Kilroy's.
the floor is slippery.
the air is filled
with the scent of old
bay and vinegar,
plastic buckets full of shells,
beer on tap.
mechanics are there from work,
hands full of grease
in their striped shirts.
secretaries gather like geese
in cheap dresses
sipping on cocktails,
staring into their phones.
no less than twenty
televisions
line the walls, each one
turned to
a different sport.
loudly.
tables and chairs
are neck to neck.
not a clean alley to walk
through. god
forbid if the place
catches fire. outside the sun
still shines.
the sky is blue.
there is fresh air and hope,
but not in here.