Member-only story
Poetry
Regulars
the barstool creaks under me
like it’s tired of my weight,
and the whiskey’s drifted
in this chipped glass —
another night leaking into nothing.
I think about dying sometimes,
not the act, not the blood or the rattle,
but the where of it —
where do they shove you when the engine quits?
heaven’s a joke, all harps and halos,
a country club for suckers who never tasted dirt.
hell’s too crowded,
full of screaming landlords and ex-wives,
and I’d rather not bump elbows
with the devil’s sweaty regulars.
maybe it’s just a ditch out there,
some nowhere spot with weeds and shards of glass,
the wind kicking dust over what’s left.
or perhaps it’s a dive like this one,
eternal last call,
stool still complaining,
no tab to settle,
just me, the quiet,
and a jukebox that won’t play
unless you kick it.
I light another cigarette,
watch the smoke exit my lungs
like it’s got somewhere to be,
and figure it don’t matter much —
you go where they put you,
and the bouncer don’t ask your name.
