they call the place
the harp & fiddle
but i still call it rooney’s
though i haven’t been here in a decade
until i got the itch again
there’s a gloss on the bar now
and seats with cushions
a row of tvs above us
playing sports and the carnage of war
a beer garden for the summer
and a trivia night on tuesdays too
they’ve raised the beer prices
three-dollars
to keep the riff-raff out
and now the decent people sit here in quiet
with their heads buried in the phones
as pop music plays
trying to find a sign of life in here is impossible
there’s no mona fucking anyone
on the bathroom sink
no benny to go mad
because the bitch cut him again
there’s just the bartender
updating her instagram account
showing everyone her vacation photos
as i sit here nursing a beer
hating that damned thomas wolfe
for being so right.
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