For Al Purdy the bar is closing the doors locked the bartender was cashing out the waitress with big pancake breasts counting tips the barroom cleaner putting chairs on tables the end of another labour-pool work week I sit finishing off a mug of beer empty mugs in front of me I stare into the mirror behind the bar long tangled cement-dust hair hardened tortured hands hard hat work gloves pouch hammer nails scattered out onto the bar a week of digging holes jack-hammering 4 storeys underground I look across the deserted bar “Drink up, Joe. Hell is closed.” laughing out the side of his mouth Killing me the rest of the way.
Killing me the rest of the way
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