there’s a lounge in queens village called the pour house, you’d be wise not to ask for a shot of prosperity. i ordered a glass of hope, topped off with bitter dreams shot down by crooked cops and sirens sang from their stools. put a quarter in the jukebox, if u dare listen, the nine to five men struggling to pay their bills, the everyday house wife needing a sip of something just to deal with her kids, the middle class; classless, suffering from summer’s dry, thick, humidity, bank accounts like mouths thirsty. the bartender’s eyes are no more filled with poverty than a newborn her smile whispered brightness that this merely part-time, night-time oblivion though day time academics couldn’t have taught her anointed head and hands to tap dance beer mugs overflowing, surely goodness and mercy shall follow her, all the days she communicates with consumers of her art and craft, she speaks eloquently even through vodka induced, liver weakened stress fractured ear drums. in the air lingers the smell of fishnet stockings chased with torn, worn out latex mixed in a familiar stench. tomorrow’s sorrow holds hands with the infantile reality of today, and springboards into snifter with aspirations of drowning in cognac. the bar itself, is a bloodstained, vomit infused cherrywood with tips plastered all over it. dimesacks, nickelbags, copperheads and tales of how not to end up here in the back, where pre-Magellan’s flat Earth lies; with sticks, balls, holes; traps for uneducated balls to roll into, moors to fall into, into an abyss which hovers over ground so close to home, the familiarity crowds the entrance; blocks away the exact same people exit a Laundromat, carrying wet clothes, loads, and pockets quarter filled with quarters quarter filled with lint half empty but fully conscious of clean, dirty and indifferent they, like the fabric are survivors of the tsunami they, pour experiences into wash, rinse and spin cycles to increase the resistance of letting tears or sweat fade origin of character they, cover frail feelings with rigid skin snuggled with fabric, softener; and this juxtapose is just supposed to be ignored but it’s Wednesday, drying clothes or buying a metrocard is a decision left to ponder two days before payday; next round on me. ***