Kelly's On Third

First of the month.
Come on in.
Kelly's on Third
is hoppin'
at 7:21 a.m.
The drunk checks
line up
to be cashed
by aborted
adults.
Outside,
the rosicrucian queen
does his best
Veronica Lake
and pulls
on a menthol
and pulls on
a filthy john
in garbage
rusted rags,
a captain's hat
and yellowed beard.
Just inside the door,
sunlight banished
the construction paper
cut outs dissolve
the pointless remainder
of themselves
in Old Milwaukee
and urine.
I am a spectator
safe behind transit glass
touring the lower intestine
of the jaundiced town.
The dead part of me
cinemascopes this corner
and in little ways
admires
this recklessness.
The lure of failure
is laced with renunciation
for this life,
for this country,
for love,
for money,
for possibility.
The lure of failure
promises wine and cakes
on cigarette butt streetcorners
at 6:30 a.m.
daily
until the lost vessel
slips under the wave.