In my city, there is an old neon sign that reads Reba’s Bar.
Us locals know the route to the brick building by heart.
Many a battle has been fought at Reba’s,
where the barmaids wink at the weak
and kiss the engaged.
But can’t you see? That is why we go.
Call us greedy as we squabble over moonshine
and flash seductive smiles at our fellow martyrs.
When the clock grows dusty, Reba take us downstairs
and shows us reels on a dirty white bed sheet.
Look, that was me before I grew old, we whisper, pointing.
That was me before I stepped into this bar.
And then we weep, remembering sweet words
(innocence, naivety, youthyouthyouth)
remembering that Reba locks the door at dawn.