Whiskey-slurred words,
minor keys
fretted on acoustic guitars
through speakers, distant speakers.
Tears in your beer;
fear doesn’t exist here.
Keep the tab open
because tomorrow is payday,
because it would be too much not to
drink these problems
away.
The young lean, press their full
body weight
against the worn wood bar, and order,
lacking restraint
in their voice.
Too loud for anyone’s taste
but their own.
I just want to leave here
and settle down.
—N.A.
Mouth Thorn 