The clock strikes a happier hour.
Neon lights shine spirits through a lone window.
The front door hollers the ins and outs.
A sticky floor kisses the soles of patrons’ shoes.
The walls hide behind pictures, posters, pomp.
A cornered jukebox hums remembered tunes.
Full bottles attract dust on a top shelf out of reach.
Cracked black vinyl dresses squeaky stool seats.
The keeper polishes an emptied area of bartop.
A stout pint sweats through glass.
A beer-branded coaster sops beneath.
A leaky tap drips another day away.
3 comments:
My goal here was to create a detailed description of something. Enjoy.
Mission accomplished, bud. This poem catalogues the look, feel, sound, and taste of Stadium at Happy Hour. Every item is vivid, but I especially like the reference to the sticky floors kissing soles and the pomp and the jukebox humming remembered tunes and the black vinyl dresses squeaking and the beads sweating on the pint glass. Geez...it's all gold.
Yeah man. I love the description here. It's every bar that you love and hate at the same time. I like the banality of the ending. Just a day leaking away. Well done.
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