He wipes the bar counter and puts the booze on the shelf. Washes the glasses, sets them back under the bar. Meticulously wipes the tabletops, empties the ash trays, puts the chairs up on the tables. Sweeps and mops the whole floor, including the jazz stage.
Once that's all done, he shuts the lights off, locks up. Out on the street, it's peaceful. And it's only ten o'clock.
If she were here, she'd be six.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 3
Poetrythird poem collection. they aren't in any particular order or anything like that, and after 100, there will always be a new one. if you've been here a while, I'm sure you know the drill. now, about the cover. it was a random Thursday, and an old fri...
