The bar is slick with liquor
and the lacquered wood is worn
where elbows rub
and beer froths over.

I have spent my last dollar
on cheap whiskey that clings
to the back of my throat
long after I've left into the snow

and slush of winter streets,
holding onto some sort of
temporary beauty that weaves
through the threads of traffic lights

and glistens on the sidewalk,
like a gold coin
that fades with the night.