Watering Hole

Apart from the worn stone-step where drunks still topple all has changed. Now a neon glow backlights a plasticized fascia. In the in the parking lot two blonds face-off. one has extra-large ear bangles, and she rattles like a Zulu warrior, fingers stabbing through cuss-words. Youths shout over the clomping-thump of their car radios. I used to come here often I explain to my incredulous wife. “Good times”, I say unconvincingly. She won't go in, but I have to pee. Inside there’s a blaze of corporate ersatz. In the cramped `gents’, a die-hard seediness persist. There’s an old-time essence of Borax and Vanish.. A condom dispenser (a peeling relic), links me to a few beery memories.