What to call a poem about the loss of a friend?
the old watering hole's had a
facelift--
Joey and Jeff and Liz
where are they now?
the beer that came to me
without ordering
Wendy smiling big on a
Monday morning of missed work.
There were others who weren't
supposed to be there either,
but they were there,
and you looked at them in
a knowing way.
you looked at some shit
rerun
on the tube and you were
glad
it took you three or four
then
it was right,
again
now-
joey and jeff and liz
are not
sitting at the bar,
there's a fresh
coat of paint
the bartenders are
virgin, eager, full of
shit.
there are brand new rats,
whiskers combed afresh,
these recently-hatched boys
matchin' socks,
carefully ordering weak
shit at the bar,
silently rehearsing their
prepared
horseshit
I'll never set foot
I'll never set foot
down in that stable
again.
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