the bar in Grand Central

it's a bar,

a speak easy of sorts,

tucked deep

into a corner

of Grand Central Station.

dark and loud.

we're the only people

over the age

of thirty in this

gyrating, phone

addicted crowd.

it's twenty five

dollars

a pop for

a short tumbler of

vodka and tonic on ice,

for the slice of lime,

no charge.

it's an old

bank of sorts from

the gilded age.

the safe

on the wall is as large

as a barn door.

no word of sound,

or note of music

escapes

from these thickened walls.

we'd like

to stay and eat and drink,

but we only have

five hundred

dollars between us.