Saturday, September 14, 2019

You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. by James H Duncan



the long, aching descent into midnight
guided by the neon bar lights reflecting
off the whiskey and gin bottles lining
the mirror, our reflections blocked,
the doorways and exits blocked, the cries
of the innocent outside muted by the last
of our collective quarters in the jukebox
playing out the gutter hymns that will
never save our souls but at least sooth
the pain we feel when raising our glasses 
to indicate we’d like another, please,
just one more before we close our eyes
to the darkness of the lights going out
one by one until we navigate by pure
desire alone, my last friend in this realm
whispering beside me how glad he was
to know he’d finally go where she 
might be waiting for him, but I do not
reply, it already happened, we have risen
and fallen at once, glasses emptying
in a last eucharist gesture, 
our sins needing no forgiveness,
just the darkness within the dark, 
the endless shades of night, 
where even creation becomes a myth
and the memory of neon reflections
the only religion that matters   






James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Feral Kingdom, Nights Without Rain, Dead City Jazz, What Lies In Wait, and other collections of poetry and fiction. He also writes reviews of indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com. 

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