The Pavilion

the place on Renfield Street,
the Pavilion,
a gorgeous dump with velvet seats
and the stink of yesterday’s drink.

four half-broke musicians drag their bones onstage, the trumpet player’s lips cracked like old pavement, the drummer sweating last night’s whisky through his shirt. but they blow the blues anyway, raw, ugly, honest, the kind of noise that makes you remember every woman who left and every bottle that stayed.

tickets are still available.

plenty.

cheap as penitence.

come sit in the dark with the rest of us losers, let the saxophone gut you slow.

it won’t save you, but it’ll hurt right.

velvet seats, cheap seats,
the saxophone finds the wound—
we paid to feel it.