“New Bar”

New bar.

American style. Can’t beat ‘em.

Apples and pears, guvnor,

Not your old pub,

And certainement ce n’est pas un café.

But it’s a comfortable seat,

At a familiar bar,

Recognizable 80’s rock blaring,

Same conversations,

Neon beer brand signs,

Flashing video lotto and poker,

Upside down glasses hung from the rack,

Spouted liquor bottles all lined up,

As if waiting for the colonel’s inspection,

Or me to make my choice.

Baseball caps with beards,

Long necks with lime,

Bourbon on ice,

Rush hour light slowly dimming outside.

One guy lost in thought,

Or sadness,

While the crescendo rises,

The tempo and beat,

The warmth kicking in,

The mind and body settling

Into the post-work calm.

Or not.

Some return to kids and chaos and cuddles,

Some to fire.

Some to raised lips,

Some to balled fists.

Some to tv dinners,

Some to the Little League.

Some to mindless indoctrination,

Some to anxious scrolling, swiping, likes and frowns.

It’s a new bar,

On my commute home.

Second visit.

First, randomly, with a $100K donor,

About as incongruous as you could get to the grilled cheese and fried mushrooms we ate.

Even more so her at over 80

And my black colleague

Out of place…or not.

The handmade carved wooden booths,

Betraying an intention long lost to time and ownership changes.

Bruce Springsteen comes on,

Almost on-cue,

To end these musings.

I smile.

I am happy.

I am warm - as the whiskey bites.

As,

We all,

Want, need, desire and sometimes hate,

“Just a little of that human touch.”

…

So why do I feel sad at the end?