bar
around the corner, called Moe's.
breakfast all day.
the specialty was
creamed beef
on toast.
there was the same
fat woman
behind the bar, standing
at the gridle
for nearly thirty years.
who Moe was no one ever knew.
the juke box
played music. five plays
for a quarter.
mostly country.
songs by men named Earl,
or Dwight,
or Buddy,
or women with names
like Loretta
or Tammy.
somehow there was no
observenance
of the smoking code.
the place was blue with it.
it was an older crowd
at the end
when they shuttered the place.
tears were shed,
rats were let
out the back after being
fumigated.
the floor washed of
blood stains.
urine stains.
a few teeth too.
beer and whiskey spills.
the toilets
at last were fixed and flushed.
love was made
and lost in that old bar
on those slippery booths.
lives were spent.
marriages occurred,
divorces
celebrated,
and now,
there's nowhere to go,
but home.
suddenly
it's a dry cleaners with a bright
white sign.
overnight for a shirt
and pair of pants, pressed
and steamed clean.
twelve dollars.
Lucky's it's called.
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