Fixture at the end of the bar

I'm still here at the end of the bar.

Looming behind a sweating glass and ancient
oak trimmed with tarnished brass.

A sexy blue haze unfurls from
the ashtray and I staple myself to
the cluttered walls lacing the torn flyers
and protruding staples.

The room is filled with the seedy murmurings
of strangers, bed fellows and whispering lights.

It's a lonely place where every song is reminiscent of
cold industrial skies and frozen sidewalks.

Reminiscent of soft spoken nights
that were riddled with
all those glorious stars

I had promised you.


Ray Strickland Jr.

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