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Fixture at the end of the bar
I'm still here at the end of the bar.
Looming behind a sweating glass and ancient
oak trimmed with tarnished brass.
A sexy blue haze unfurls from
the ashtray and I staple myself to
the cluttered walls lacing the torn flyers
and protruding staples.
The room is filled with the seedy murmurings
of strangers, bed fellows and whispering lights.
It's a lonely place where every song is reminiscent of
cold industrial skies and frozen sidewalks.
Reminiscent of soft spoken nights
that were riddled with
all those glorious stars
I had promised you.
Ray Strickland Jr.
Dec.16,2001
