For the rats in the walls who will be homeless
When that place is finally shut down.
For the yellow and black mold, waiting
In the cracks and crevices of the broken cement
And the buried century old pipe-fittings, leaking
Into the landfill we call Manhattan.
So much liquor spilled, so much smoke
So much sweat and amphetamine rush
Music so loud, so loud careening
Down the shotgun room lined w/ logs,
Set on planks, down the long mirrored rail
Across from the Cattle Trailer, that was, of course, a bar.
I will not tear my hair, raise my fists
Clash and bear my teeth – some fool
Surprised by the rising of the tide
Some sand crab scurrying
West of Bellvue, East of insane
I will not fret and wonder
So many promises made, threats
Declarations of love
So turns the world, and Last Call
Will come. We were listening to those songs,
Weren’t we? Those lyrics? Those words?
We saw the writing on the wall, back then
Knew it, each of us
lived like we meant it, messy and flawed
I will not weep for that.
I will not call out names, listing
Homeric and starboard
I will not grieve those bands
Gypsy, anarchist, honky-tonking, rock guitar playing, swing, monster, musicians
Road weary and epiphianic, lilting
This way and that.
Rome was built on the bones of Trojan refugees
Manhattan on the bones and broken hearts
Of Last Call.