Amaranth

ghost tavern on the outskirts.
small and musty like an old train car covered in
rusted beer signs of unknown brands.
tongue and groove walls yellowed by nicotine.
smoky blurred characters at a dark burgundy formica
topped bar suspended in canned laughter.
crumpled red and green Lucky Strike packages
on corner tables full of empty glasses.
a father's skeleton hands lifting you up as a shadow
slides you a Coca Cola in the thick light green bottle.
clicking of an overhead fan like a Nellie
Fox baseball card in the spokes.
faraway smell of a neighborhood burning leaves outside
a hand worn door that doesn't even open.