And it’s the beginning of the end of the world –
the regulars are turned out of the taverns,
red-faced and singing defiantly,
swaying and carrying their jackets under their arms
into the almost-spring night, leaving behind
the warm beer-sign bubbles,
the cracked cheer of the bartenders,
the pilsner philosophy of their fellow compatriots
holding forth from duct-taped barstools;
Tomorrow they’ll pick up their fifths and their cases
in the grocery stores, they’ll drink at home
one shot at a time, idly crushing cigarettes into empty cans –
Jeopardy muted on the TV,
no sports to cheer, no clack of billiards, no thud of darts,
just scrolling through their phones, waiting
for a text to chime, or a single notification
like the ping of sonar under the heavy black sea,
confirming a round has been made –
the signal has gone out, has found another
traveler in darkness, at least one person who remembers
their name.
