ten is closing time

it's a loud

bar,

dark and dingy,

old tables

and chairs with

men in ball caps

screaming at the telly.

there's six of them,

one for each

bend of a wall.

for a moment

they seem to care

as one

team

or another scores.

a hand

slams the bar,

another cheers.

the beer flows.

the waitresses in t-shirts

reading

Flannigan's

are weary,

they want to go home.

there's

a crab cake special

on the board,

with slaw

and fries.

dessert is an apple

crumb pie

with a scoop of vanilla

on the side.

ten is closing time.