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The facade of the bar is
In red brick, darker over
The wide, barred windows,
Paler where it meets the
Distressed tarmacadam of its
Front. Cigarette butts lie in
The grass and weeds where
The rain has soaked them
Brown and dark and fragile.
A yellow hydrant punctuates
The beige concrete of the
Sidewalk. Dead leaves drift
Across the doorway and in
The moist and febrile air.
The door is painted brown
And marked with a plaque
That reads PRIVATE CLUB in
Red and above a gold 284.
A silent air-con unit and a
Surveillance camera pose
At the left of it. Over the door
A white crescent awning with
Lettering in crimson that
Reads EAST SIDE CARDINALS
And the image of a yellow bat
On which two cardinals sit.
Behind the iron grating of
The window, three vacant neons:
Miller Lite, Budweiser, Pabst.
The light has left them and hangs
Before them in its first form.