Gin Mills

GIN MILLS Battered pay phones hung on the walls their rings harsh reminders. They sat, ageing men, hunched on barstools brooding faces glaring into sullen evidence of reflected disdain. Younger men stood milling about regaling each other with exaggerated misdeeds. The old payphone’s ring coldly calling those who were never there. There was no “top” shelf, only hard whiskey for softened men. Bent backs, gnarled hands, empty eyes, lost in a liquored loneliness. Draft beer, pickled eggs, Slim Jims, that damn phone forever ringing as they watched the seasons change through the dirty window of death’s waiting room. John G. Lawless ©5/14/2017