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.
Shaken Rain 