There’s whitecaps on the puddles
the leaves have left the trees
the tavern sits on gravel
catching snowflakes on the breeze.
The men trudge up hunkered down
in coats and heavy shoes
to warm their hearts with alcohol
and play the two-ball blues.

It’s two bits for a train song 
the heart hides in the juke
the mirror reflects what isn’t said
inside its neon loop.
The wall is papered with old jokes
of  nags and bass and booze
the laughter’s in the break up 
when they play the two-ball blues.

Bridge
A beer sign winds back and forth
from camp to lighted falls
as if some dream it’s following  
can’t get nowhere at all.

The sun shines on the bedspreads
it dries the white crochet
that rests like brittle fishing nets
on the love that got away.
The old wives turn to Jesus,
serving soup beneath the pews
with pockets full of eight balls
when they lost the two-ball blues.

Photo: Tima Miroshnichenko, pexels.com