The Tears of a Thousand Men By April Ridge

The impending doom looms over our heads

as we sit and discuss strategies

to prevent the lingering failure from succeeding in

shutting the doors on this popsicle stand for good.

As the coins slip out of worn, splayed fingers

the lights dim slowly,

the room becomes chilly with neglect.

The floors are four layers of eroding laminate tile,

laid by three different owners over the years.

Older than most struggling grad students

back for their second degree in old bar floor topography.

The north and west walls painted barn red,

the east wall, a horrid mauve creation mixed from three paint 

cans,

laid onto a false rock wall,

bordered in a tan grout.

The south wall is weathered brick wall inserts

scrubbed last summer to remove the decades of tar

built up from when you could still smoke in a bar.

All the stools are missing the middle ring,

the rubber stops chewed away by the decaying steel,

nicotine and whiskey and

the tears of a thousand men.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.