Friday night, like the dust settling,
Where the creak of the barroom door,
Opens to a home of ice cubes,
Laying around, melting,
Collecting the heat of the day.
The whiskey might be poured
Mixed with the yawn of summer,
Sprinkled with laughter that tests
The little scratches along the bar.
Sunset reaches out like a voice
Tapping at the one tiny window,
Peering in the creaking barroom door
With a crooked welcome mat,
Worn, and tired with lifetimes of possibilities
that will languish on that last light.
Then the crickets sing,
Like jukeboxes across the sagebrush flats,
As the last working street light,
The life of Main Street, goes dim.
That’s when the fightwater gets poured.
And the doors fly open, letting loose
A roar across the desert,
Spewing the sad love songs,
They hoped would be sung together.
Not long after,
The last ice cube clinks silently
Along the half empty glass,
Calling for more. While the buzz
of an old street light struggles to life,
and a lone cricket remembers the words.