Friday Noir: Blood On Blood
The bar was worn smooth by the elbows that had rubbed it down, year after year, drink after drink.
Smoke hung in the air like wisps of tart cotton strands.
On the ‘box, Ol Blue Eyes is telling Joe to set ’em up.
Another time, another year, maybe it’s Cash singing about why he wears black.
Or Bad Scooter singing about searching for his groove.
Don’t matter, it’s all the same inside.
Time stands still.
You sit there trying to remember what once was.
Or trying to forget what brought you here in the first place.
The only dames in a joint like this carry bad intentions.
And a Saturday Night Special in their purses.
Summer slips into Fall and then the long Winter sleep.
It’s all just blood on blood, out on the avenue.
(c)Mark Krajnak | JerseyStyle Photography | 2015