We sit on our bar stools in afternoon.
The only light is neon. Night or day?
It's all the same in here with our
fellow drunks. We've no shame.
We circle death day to day.
We put quarters in the jukebox
grinning like scarecrows in
rhythm with the old tunes
stirring memories of love and
marriage and baby carriage.
We were decent men back then.
Good fathers and husbands and
bread winners, hard workers.
The coal mines paid good then.
The mines went dry and we died.
I touch the tears on my pint and
think of your tears when you left.
I remember your touch and hunger.