I lean over the counter,
pull my hat down low,
the restaurant is empty,
so I put Ari Shaffir's
new Netflix special on,
because it has been awhile
since I've been behind the bar,
and I needed a distraction.
I clean up, assuming responsibility,
laugh when I look up at my friend
making jokes about jews and abortions,
then I crack a beer and text Daniel
that everything is fine
and I will be "home" on time.
there is something romantic
about mopping and closing down
a restaurant by yourself,
with only music and/or comedy,
especially with the time machine in my heart,
because I spent my former life
doing this exact same thing,
pining for a gal or writing poetry on drink tickets.
tomorrow doesn't matter,
all that matters is getting all this water
out of this mop, and so I lean and squeeze,
after cleaning the bathroom,
of which I did the wallpaper,
a shellacked collage of ripped out pages of books
and knuckle blood somewhere near the corners.
this is earned nostalgia,
far better than a CNN series about the 90s
or some such shit with clips of The Simpsons and Nirvana,
and so tonight's sleep is either going to be
good or terrible, with dreams of seemingly floating
maybe memories and mistakes,
or exact memories that actually make you miss real things.