I had gone to that
old spot Sunday;
walking in, daring
not to sit outside
in good ol’ booth
number two – instead
forcing the patrons
awkward attention as
I grabbed a table of
six, for just myself
and a Guinness.

Smokers outside,
sipping in-between
under cooled beers
and vodka rocks;
corner pockets,
scratches, and arcade
games, the end of the
bar – lone road.

Knowing it wasn’t
the same here
anymore, I ordered
another and toasted
off to the memories,
waiting for you to
come and make your
final appearance.


A subtle sprinkling
of kisses to ice,
falling in the streets
outside the bar
where we first met –
laughing and drinking,
meeting the sun
at dawn for rounds
six and eight.
Winter is coming again,
and I haven’t you to dance
the streets with
painting our coats
in snow and sighs.
So, come back my sun,
come back.