the stool, the countertop, the glass of whiskey,
the stubby brown bottle of shit beer.
It's carved into my memory of that time-
remaining clear as an empty tumbler
with a splash of melted ice.
The games are still playing on the tv,
the regulars still sit at their stools.
Everyone still bitching
about work and politicians.
Those goddamn bastards.
Who cares about memory
when there's no trace
of the day before.
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