Justin Hills
Inky red gore crawled down my chin,
escaping the greasy pub burger.
The blood moon blistered outside narrow glass panels
and The Ramones blared from rusted speakers,
“I wanna be sedated.”
Long was the weekend, though now dwindling.
I had been no Mary Poppins,
septum nearly deviated
throat clogged, cocaine drip.
My glass loomed transparent and empty–
last call, last call.
Hours had passed, and the blizzard winds raged
laying siege on my vulnerable tavern,
Help me.