Winstons

a bar

used to be a bar.

a dark

hole in the wall, where

you could go

and sit,

and have a drink, or

a bite

to eat. a place

to ponder your life,

out of the rain,

done for

the day.

maybe there was one

old tv

on a shelf,

with rabbit ears,

black and white

with a fight on.

the volume turned down.

no one was on their phone.

the menu

had hamburgers

with American

cheese. French fries.

no salads, no spinach dip.

no calamari.

the words gluten free

weren't on there.

in front of you was a bottle

of ketchup

and mustard

and packs of sugar.

salt and pepper shakers.

the bar tender was

friendly

but he didn't want

to be your friend

and left you alone after

pouring you a drink.

no one explained for ten

minutes what

the specials of the day were.

there were no specials.

people would sit

next to each other and

talk or not talk.

silence was okay.

there might be a juke box

in the corner, playing songs

you knew all the words to.

the place

smelled like old smoke,

old beer,

old men and women

lost in their thoughts.

and when you got up to

go to the bathroom,

no one touched your drink,

or took your spot.

the floor creaked when

you walked across it and

the bar stools were

made of wood, strong and

sturdy.

they could hold you all night.

and sometimes did.