Saints of the Neons
It matters not
what bar, any bar,
any town, anywhere.
It is where us serious drinkers
talk shit
and gossip,
backslap
and bullshit
yet
hold one another tight
when the time
is necessary.
And if two weekends pass
we wonder
where you’ve been.
We’ve broken up
in front of the beer taps
and busted our faces
at happy hour
defending someone’s honor.
We have seen kids
grow up
and marriages
grow old,
lives born
and lights
go out.
We’ve heard every jukebox tune
a thousand times,
sometimes in one sitting.
We have over-tipped
to be over-served.
Have woken up
with the hair of the dog
and passed out
when the sun
shows its face.
We have done shots
and been shot down.
Downed pints
and puked
in the garbage cans.
Embarrassed
and absolved ourselves
over Jaeger bombs
and Bloody Marys.
Here we are equal—
equally lost
equally broke
equally off
and we look almost innocent
under the neons.
We spend hungover holidays
on barstool thrones,
where liquor bottles
stand like gods
under Christmas lights
providing us gifts
we didn’t know
we needed.
Even though Sunday mornings
can be brutal
without a hint
of redemption,
we crawl back
to the neons
full of confessions and contrition,
where we never have to order,
the bartender simply has it waiting
with a beerback of forgiveness
and that feels
better than church
to saints like us.
Horror Sleaze Trash 