#barpoetry
Stop lights bleeding
through wet windows,
the kind of blue
that tastes like cheap ***** and shame.
He sat on the curb,
penny loafers scuffed,
socks lost from last night’s debacle.
A 40-ouncer Schlitz
precariously balanced
between his knees.
An old, orange tomcat
scurried past,
chasin’ a rat
that took a wrong turn.
Somewhere,
a woman’s cackle
echoed off the walls of the bar,
or maybe it was in his head,
debunked by *****
He slumped against the slick bricks,
hands wet from the Schlitz,
and thought about the highways
he'd never been on.
Cities that smelled like old typewriters
and thrift stores.
Streets lined with glittering promises
he might finally write down.
He prodded a beetle with his finger,
trembling, cold,
looking for a line out of the lunacy.
Looking for the words
that might stick and breathe,
the sentences
that might make someone
taste a little bit of the ache he carried
like a carnival souvenir.
His reflection shimmered
in a puddle.
He thought about Narcissus,
and the dog with a bone growling,
and he thought maybe
he could still write it.
Could still leave his mark
before the night ate him—
like a Coney Island hot dog.
Dec 29, 2025
Dec 29, 2025 at 9:03 AM UTC