friday ghosts

friday ghosts

He feigns interest in his fingers
as the sun sets on Hollywood
and nowhere else. The empty glass
sends signals that scratch
at where nose and throat meet.

His words are tumbleweeds
the size of lions. They prowl city streets
for late night drivers and mislaid dollar bills
, but no one’s ’round to hear.

 
“Would you like another, hun?” the bar-back asks.
He shrugs. She is as faceless as the moon.
The barstool beside him is empty, reserved—
a last dance he’d promised
after party’s end.

 

 

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