Dive Bar

Your single television plays the local news
Lined with static and muted
As if the words coming out of the finely dressed
Anchor has anything to do with the lives of those here.
Even the commercials aren’t for them:
They never drank their beer on the beach
Admiring their six-packs and beautiful girlfriends.
No garnishes will touch their warm draft glasses
Or vodka tonics on the rocks
Plain and dull like the
Dim lighting under your Budweiser glass lamps
Hung high over your single pool table tilted
Like your patrons
Drinking PBR out of cans on special
(one can hardly call it “special”)
Webs of dust cling
To the lost license plates and banners lining your wall
And your patrons sitting on bar stools
With ripped leather seats
And the foam protruding out.
No one will say the names of those who are here.
They have no names, only faces.
But the faces are all the
Same to your bartender who serves them:
Forgotten.