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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