you're sitting so close
to the speakers
blasting music from two decades ago
so loudly
that your stool reverberates
with each
note,
and the air
has a the taste
of stale beer
hanging in it.
the walls are unfinished wood
cluttered up
by div patches
and whiskey bottles,
and a
well used
bra
hangs from the ceiling.
there's seven people
plus the bartender
and it seems
like that is six more
than the room can fit.
even to a stranger
this place
is a good time.
even to a stranger
sitting alone,
drinking whiskey
and waiting for tomorrow to
rear its ugly head,
this place
could make a nice home.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Poetrypoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
