the new hawk and dove

they cry

over the old bar,

the run down joint on the edge

of town

home for the lost,

the poets,

the laborers, 

beleaguered politicians,

fast women,

the fringes of society.

the wobbly stools,

the carved

bar,

the unflushed toilets,

and wet floors.

the lighted juke box

in the corner.

saturated with a hundred

years of smoke.

they cry 

as the iron ball swings

through the walls,

they groan as

the plows pushes

through the rubble.

it's where they fell in love

for a night or two,

where they

drank away their cares,

their blues.

and now it's gone.

they grieve it hard,

their old stomping

ground,

soon to be replaced

by something new.