Tuesday Night Regular

The Dive, it pulls me in each week,

with faded signs and a broken streak

of neon, buzzing overhead.

Same sticky booth, the words unsaid.

That false-leather smell, of stale, spilled beer,

a comfortable kind of lonely fear.

Mark, the bartender, wipes the bar,

a well-worn path, no guiding star.

The same sad songs on the jukebox play,

as I watch the streetlights fade away.

Another round, another glass,

to make the weary hours pass.

And no one asks, no one will know,

this quiet place where feelings go.