Neon flashin' "jukebox"
The man may have found himself.
This place lacks atmosphere,
No stale, no smell,
Dirty sweat quarters
Revive the saxophone
The piano, the gravel
in his voice.
A faint twinge of smile
In remembrance of heroes
In wax,
No fear of tomorrow
Just relish
For the now of yesteryear,
Brittle shells of men
Sulk, subtle nods of agreement,
No shared glances.
Daydream specters flood
His embrace...
Awake,
And confront the rearview.