IMPLOSION: ODE TO THE SANDS (poem)

For so many years
it stood majestic,
the swankiest
joint in town.
Gin-soaked men
gambled here by night
while their wives spent their
unwon winnings by day.
No one knew when to quit.

But now, hard times
are a knockin'. The big boys
are in town now and
they own the crowds; the
gamblers; the tourists.
Everyone.

And it's about to fall.

And sure, the carpet
has long faded like
oxidized paint
on a Pinto;
The glasses don't
clink the same clank;
the neon doesn't
burn as bright.
Cliché? Perhaps.
But true. And, please,
have no illusions,
this joint will always be
a landmark.
Need proof?
He sang here;
ate here
slept here;
Don't ask who.
It's beneath you.

And it's about to fall.

As for the new school?
The billion dollar
monoliths with the fancy
glass art commissioned up the
wazoo. Keep it.

Keep the flavour of
the month chefs and
their lame eateries
because I remember
when they served
steak in this town.
Real steak. A man's steak.

They liquidated all
of her assets; sold
the piss-stained sheets even.
Thinking about it, I laugh.
But then it starts.

3 ...

2 ...

1...

BOOM!

And she falls.