Member Poem

Old towns all groping desperate to stay young, lost in the neon haze,
Lost in the grip of the moon, streets lit by cheap cigarettes
And the pews that line the empty bars, full of whisky blaze;
No one singing now, just a book of empty bets.
Unsent letters wrapped around the mail slots of unspent days
Call upon the salty air, and anglers paying unpaid debts.
What’s the word the old man said? Watch who leaves, the one that stays
Is searching for his youth in alley ways burnt up by the sun.
Where’s the barber in the barber’s chair? Find the man who pays the rents
And you’ll find the city’s empty soul running like a madman.