9:13 p.m. on Wednesday sitting, bolted to this bar, next to tired tropes and worn out jokes I've met a million times or more. And the drinks all swirl together and they start to taste the same going down or coming up. It really doesn't matter much.
If the streets looked any different, they'd still bear familiar names: trees and states and Presidents-- Left turn, snowfall, sitting fences, walking home and getting old. These towns all look alike, with weeks spent walking in the cold.
And the salt on the sidewalks might season your footsteps-- sure-- a steady, frigid cadence carried through like a threat: shallow and petty, from downtown to home. Alone on the sidewalk, it's 7 below. And I don't know what that is in Celsius, but I know there's no home
for at least another block or 2.
I came clean in muddy puddles, ***** slush and snowbound streets, in towns that looked alike. Tonight, I'm headed for clean sheets. So close the doors, unbolt the patrons Thursday morning, 2 a.m. And it never feels like half an answer when I push my front door shut again.