Stale smoke and testosterone fill the air

Soft yellow-orange lighting to keep patrons

From noticing the tables aren’t wiped down

The ashtrays all half-full and

The carpet littered with small assorted debris

Loud music from the jukebox

Forces the regulars to speak slightly louder

A few TVs suspended from the ceiling

One showing basketball

The other Star Trek

A sinewy middle-aged woman with stringy hair

And painted-on jeans

Is singing along with every song

And decides the aisle will do as her dance floor

Since the owners have overlooked the detail

Of having one available for her

Neon signs proclaiming different brands of beer

At affordable prices

Large groups of 40ish jocks

Deifying whichever sports “hero”

Is on the TV closest to them

Women who look as though they live here

Or like they don’t belong at all

Slow moving ceiling fans equally distributing

The clouds of smoke to each table

Praying I don’t get hit on

Disappointed when I don’t

Is this their escape

Or is the world of 9-5, minivans, and unreachable goals

Their escape from drinking?