Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill
The corner of Fourth
and Washington;
salt lick for the wicked,
for neighbors, workers
fathers, mothers,
one and all wrong
and wronged. Loners
and runners all
nightly migrate and post.
These sad faces do little
to hide loss and nerves
and misfortune.
These people with
withered lips
suck hard on death sticks,
pretend it’s candy.
It’s warm now,
no more hands stuffed in pockets,
cigarette clasped in teeth.
These sad souls,
these snapping turtles
smoke outside with
greater vibrance than in
the gray months passed,
smelling like whisky
and wheat beer,
smoke and oak.
Now pink cheeks lift
through the haze.
A happy buzz of
voices big and small,
washed over with sweet
citrus and coriander.
They’re all here now.
Everyone has a place.
This is theirs.
They drink, smoke,
hide and forget,
yet stay together.
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