As the evening sweeps the remnants,
Of broken glass from off the floor,
And the spills of another hard-luck tale,
That got sucked in through the door.
I’m hunched up in the corner,
Of a near-empty dead-end bar,
The loners game,
Is like walking out into a night without stars.
As the crowd staggers clumsily out into the street,
The smoke curls from my fingertips like an apparition,
Rising from an ashtray of squandered dreams,
Fading like the memory of ambition.