Author Information
Machinery
The bar has become like a used car lot.
Bartenders slinging drinks and a line of bullshit,
surrounded by beat up and broken down people.
With high mileage from life.
Some look perfect on the outside,
but have one-hundred-thousand miles
under the hood.
I see a built man standing near the corner
in the shadows
the kind who waits for a bump to blow his gasket.
There's a woman sitting at the end of the bar
on the verge of breaking down.
Her hearts on her sleeve.
Her sleeves are covered in dirt.
I sit between the two.
We sit in silence only with the company of our drinks,
As we wait for someone to take interest.
And it's almost beautiful
