Times Up
Small voices chatter, rodent plans,
Frank seeks out familiars in the smoky humid club
he aches, tries to stretch, breathe
to no avail
he finds none
holds the back of a metal chair
so as to not collapse on the hard dancefloor wood
or a nearby wobbly laminated table
somewhere inside
between home and day job
peoples he’s loved and lost or driven away
performances
he pauses, unsteady,
the neon Bud Light sign blurs in his eyes
just before he loses consciousness for the last time, the Bartender yells,
“last call, last call for alcohol.”
His eyes go black, he leaves
just the way he thought he would,
as he holds the mic stand.
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