It’s 4:30 or 5.
One game is over, another has begun and I’m low and mean from drink and too much sleep.
At the windows, customers watch the oafish lumbering walk of families staking out their claim with blankets and handwarmers.
The floats are coming,
and although It’s too warm for the season, I’m still sick.
Down and light from syrup,
I no longer have a gun moll.
Now one of us will always be winning.
Later, I take more cough medecine and then smoke.
And someone’s hand is on my shoulder,
their other fumbling and swiping a credit card.
In the back of the bar, a child’s yelling “Owie” but the pitch and stretch,
ties out the whine,
Makes it sound like “Help me.”