#27:

Lawrence's

Fuse this esoteric aperture shut.
The same twenty cross through its
cobwebs each night.
Less on weekends.
More rocks in the raft after every blink.
More rats in the rafters.
Their feet scratching rhythms
on the aging oakboards;

keeping time.

I can number it all through my evaporating memory, still.
From the first drink,
to the mass of regulars lined up outside,
to '75, Lawrence's halcyon year,
to the gang violence that
bled over soon after
(to Warwick, rest his drunken soul),
to the notice tacked to the portal
and the corresponding rally/savior to get it back,
to Larry's last inhale.
40 years condensed into broken glass.

Now, now, son.
You're just a victim of circumstance,
and the circumstance is time.
The circumstance is generations.
The circumstance is failed nations
that surround us as I'm sat here for the last
time.
It's not you.
It's not.

~-~