Leitrim: The Worcester Current

The Legacy Choice

I write like the wires are bad but the lights stay on. A low hum in the drywall. Ozone. Old sins. The bill doesn’t arrive. It accumulates. I carry it in the dark while the world outside goes neon. Don’t hate you. Don’t hate them. Just hate myself enough to keep the current moving.

It started with a Worcester Job. Snow packed into the tire wells like we carried the job in with us. Mill brick sweating through the cold. Kelley Square spinning its lies. Papa talks low. He doesn’t repeat himself. That’s how you know it’s real. A bag on the table. Not opened. Respect is not curiosity. No one here is pretending. We leave with less than we came for.

I’m at the bar Papa built. Park Ave. Real wood. Real weight. He didn’t use a level. Just a ghost’s eye for the tilt of the world. A box of brass screws that cost a week’s wages. You can feel it in the varnish. Papa’s hands in my wrists. Same pressure. Different room. Not memory. Load bearing. A heavy anchor in a shallow harbor.

Something small in the mirror behind the bottles. Green. Watching. Not a joke. Not a mascot. Just another thing that stayed too long and learned how to order. An IPA. I don’t look at him twice.

I hear the others. All citrus and talk. Foam dressed up as structure. High voices rattling the glasses Papa polished. They don’t know what holds. Take your vape breath. Your sugared air. Your clean, untested hands. Get out.

This isn’t a concept. This isn’t a brand. This is a bar.

-Joe Garvey

PoetKing

www.houseoffireborn.com