The Squire Lounge at 7 a.m.
The sharp crack of broken rolls of silver
change cascades from stubby fingers,
fills the black and smooth well-worn till.
The joint opens at seven, by quarter past
the round bar is filled with faces
slung low on necks.
Sunlight dances through the cracks
of the old and yellowed shutters,
plays a light tune in the amber of the bottles.
Old men in faded business suits,
checkered jackets and quilted caps
crush cigarette butts
with less than shiny shoes,
banter their moments in the coin
of low, throaty, inside, formula jokes.
Like half-remembered dreams and plans
a million dust motes float
rising and falling
in the columns of blue smoke.
One old woman there is at the bar
with her shot and her beer,
her offering, as it were.
With her plain, black coat
and her stern scarf,
she reminds me of the pious women of my youth
whom I would see in the shadows of the church.
Early, early!
In the grey-white crack of day
they humbly light the candles in the tray
and arrange themselves
before an unseen god to pray.
The sharp crack of broken rolls of silver
change cascades from stubby fingers,
fills the black and smooth well-worn till.
The joint opens at seven, by quarter past
the round bar is filled with faces
slung low on necks.
Sunlight dances through the cracks
of the old and yellowed shutters,
plays a light tune in the amber of the bottles.
Old men in faded business suits,
checkered jackets and quilted caps
crush cigarette butts
with less than shiny shoes,
banter their moments in the coin
of low, throaty, inside, formula jokes.
Like half-remembered dreams and plans
a million dust motes float
rising and falling
in the columns of blue smoke.
One old woman there is at the bar
with her shot and her beer,
her offering, as it were.
With her plain, black coat
and her stern scarf,
she reminds me of the pious women of my youth
whom I would see in the shadows of the church.
Early, early!
In the grey-white crack of day
they humbly light the candles in the tray
and arrange themselves
before an unseen god to pray.