by Neil Fulwood
Not heroin but whisky, and Echo Park
is removed from Bestwood Park
by more than a Greyhound ticket
or ten cold hours in a boxcar
but sometimes a place is arrived at
where everything is worn down
to the coarse grain
of what was always going to happen
and the only difference
is whether the song was playing on a radio
scratchy with static in a hotel room
or a museum-piece jukebox in a bar
that serves one brand of beer,
where the few notes
you pawned your iPad for
will cover this drink and maybe the next.
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