The Last Tavern

We sat in a booth by a broken window
Sipping caustic martinis with extra olives
And listened to the breeze as it blew over the river.
Without words between us,
alternately avoiding eyes and gazing,
we smoked old photographs until the ashtray overfilled.
There were in attendance some I had not seen in some time,
and would not have relished seeing again,
were the situation a different thing
that did not make comfort of old acquaintances.
The wind whispered through the window and stirred ashes from the tray,
blew them into our hair and unblinking eyes.
And carried into the same air,
meandering with pathetic off-key tones
contributed by the remaining strings of a pitiable piano in the corner,
the crystalline impact of glasses shuffled at the bar,
and the rustle of customers’ Sunday Best,
we heard the ferry dully thud into the dock.
We finished our drinks,
snuffed our memories,
spat our tabs onto the table and rose,
every one of us in unison,
a cacophony of clamoring coin and creaking shoes,
and exited the establishment calmly,
solemn and in distant resignation,
the smell of the Cocytus cold and sanguine in our noses.

Originally published in the Sherwood Forest Literary Journal of 2009.