St. Amand of the Rural Rust Belt Bars by Karen J. Weyant

You gave up fine food and drink for this:

Wobbly bar stools, cracked plastic glasses

and old pool tables with chipped cue balls

that will never shoot straight.

     

The pretzels always taste stale even

though you open fresh bags for every shift;

the beer tastes the same no matter the brand. 

Every day, factory workers stop by with 

their slim paychecks, waitresses use tip money

for booze. Even a few school teachers,

their souls worn thin by the lives of their students,

slide in the front door, take seats near the back,

nurse bottles with their fingers tight around the glass.

Your old life was more comfortable, but you stay.

You serve up the alcohol, listen to all the problems.

And every night you think of the lives

you hope you have saved: the young cashier who masks 

her prescription drug problem by ordering Pepsi,

the gas station attendant who blows most of his money

on instant lotto tickets, always hoping for the big win,

the men who are weighed down flannel shirt, pay cuts 

and families who already need more.

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.