Hard Drinkin’ Whiskey Bar

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.

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