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.