Sunday In the Queen of the West
A slack jawed drunk
thugs his way toward
a down-town bar and grill.
Red lights over sizzling steaks
add flames to his eyes.
Cincinnati on a Sunday morning
trashes its streets
cold winds scatter empty plastic cups,
cigarette butts, sick spills
and the ash of incinerated dinoursours.
Once there were rattle snakes,
now high-rise
mark their once tunneled territory.
The drunk can't find the door
to the bar
he pisses himself
grins through a window
at the beer guzzling diners.
Happy hour
drags itself
through the night,
the Sabbath has to be swept up
made to walk sober,
resurrected.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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