but in the end,
I’ve always come back here.
To whisky smells and jazz cats
suckling on scotch teats
after midnight. When all
horns are silenced and
in faded music, reaping time itself.
The bartender shouts, “Last call!”
and the darkened hands of ashen faces
reach out for one more sip. Precious
streams of liquor to choke and mangle
the last hours of a day already gone.
Yes, I’ve been to many places,
but the inebriation I rejoice in after
I’ve come back here is all I need
to tolerate that face of yours.