The Bar

Like a wounded

Wildebeest,

Our Tavern sits

Abandoned,

About to die

Heaving boys

Forming foaming

Rivers of half-digested

Booze down the side streets of

Landon

Zebra hooker dresses

Dispersed along traffic

Stops,

Platinum hoops

Puncture the fog,

Sweet perforations

In the air

And staring through those

Holes

I can see my

Old table

Notched and arthritic

Butched by old

Lovers and

Daydrinkers

Where the soccer

Match drowns

Our talk

Of so how’s?

And what ifs?

So now

There’s a bartender

Who Does not

Memorize

Drinks

Talk of

Pneumonia is

Long gone

And the old

Sign’s neon