is full, each stool has a soul
in place.
the room
is blue with smoke,
it's back
in those days.
there's a black and white tv
in the corner.
fat and low
with antennas sticking
out.
music is coming from somewhere.
south side johnny
and the Asbury dukes,
i don't want to go home
being sung in a raspy voice.
there's a bowl
of nuts every three feet
on the old
wood bar.
people are actually talking
to each other.
flirting,
making wild claims
of things
they've done,
or are about to do.
the best and the worst
in us arrives
with the third drink.
a fight breaks out,
hair gets pulled.
there's blood and commotion
but it passes.
numbers are written on
the backs of napkins
as the lights go up,
some stagger off into the night
driving home
alone
to lives
they were trying to avoid
for just a few
more hours.
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