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I find myself alone again,
observing the laughter and spirit around
the fake mahogany bar
old blonde women stare
their raspy whispers echo between drags of their
full flavor cigarettes.
â€œThursday Night Special"
still available Friday.
Precarious music gives no atmosphere,
as the words of Layne Staley
fall on deaf ears
thoughts not relevant here.
Aerosmith garners garbled karaoke
cheap whiskey sings â€œSweet Emotionâ€
in lowly places where
the dejected donâ€™t feel homely.
If only â€“
they knew that they too
are together in matrimony,
celebrating with liquid ceremony.
My waiter, my bartender
you could tell a local man,
held a swagger and a shaking hand
a long draw to his question â€“
â€œYou here for lunch or a drink, man?â€
explains his jittery stance,
quivering jaw and yellow eyes.
I smile, and ask for whiskey
neat, a double, but neat â€“
Ponder, I stare at local adornments,
awards and harrowing memorials â€“
Tobacco stained newspapers
hung on the wall
high school sports no one cares about.
Life in a small town I guess,
some shuffling stuck in the sludge.
Remembering the golden times,
before they were young.
A life in decline, I think
as my drink arrives,
I decide to define my time
in this small town
as a man lost on tape â€“
stuck in rewind.