In a Dying Rust Belt Town by Karen J. Weyant

Friday night fun was breaking into 

Suzy’s Bar & Grill on South Main.

At 14, we were too young to drive,

but we could pick the back door lock

with a bobby pin or climb through

a broken window, always avoiding

sharp shards of splintered glass.

Closed for over five years, the building

leaned to the left and the floorboards

sagged under each step. We brushed

away cobwebs, cleared away weeds

that had fingered their way in, claiming

the rotting wood as their own. The beer

was long gone, and so were the chips

and pretzels. The pool table had mice nests

in the corner pockets. But somehow

we always found a table that didn’t wobble, 

and chairs that didn’t collapse under our weight.

On those nights, we bought our own booze, 

usually beer we bribed someone to buy 

for us. We built mini fires with torn napkins

and splintered bar stools. We talked 

about the high school football games, the

latest meth lab bust or our parents’ fights

money.  But mostly, we talked about Suzy,

 

always wondering what had happened 

to her. Some said she married a trucker

who passed through town one night,

while others said she won the lotto and left

for a warmer, less ruined place. 

All her stories had her escaping, something 

we all longed to do. Years later 

Suzy’s would burn to the ground. 

Arson, some said. Insurance money.

No, others said. Just some kids with matches.

The author of two poetry chapbooks, Karen J. Weyant's poems have appeared in Chagrin River Review, Cold Mountain Review, Copper Nickel, Crab Orchard Review, Fourth River, Harpur Palate, Pittsburgh Quarterly, Lake Effect, Rattle, River Styx, and Whiskey Island. She lives, reads, and writes in Warren, PA.