The Pavilion

the place on Renfield Street. the Pavilion. a dump with velvet seats. the stink of yesterday’s drink. four musicians drag their bones onstage. the trumpet player’s lips are cracked. old pavement. the drummer sweating whisky right through his shirt.

they blow the blues anyway. noise. raw. ugly.

tickets are still available, plenty of them. cheap as penitence. I sit in the dark with the rest of the losers. the saxophone finds the bone. it won’t save anything.

broken velvet seats,
the saxophone finds the bone,
drummer sweating whisky.