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When Things Were Good
David Thompson
We’ve been going there for years
after our games on winter Friday nights.
The owner’s name is Sheila and she sits
with us as we work our way through
a burger and a few bottles of Stroh’s.
Her son Donny is the bartender.
He looks just like her, always wears
the same Red Wings jersey, moves
a little slowly.
Every week she tells us
business isn’t what it used to be, blames it
on the economy.
People out of work, she says
as she stubs out another cigarette,
houses for sale
everywhere. I should have sold this dump years ago
when things were good and moved to Florida
like everybody else.
We nod and sigh with her,
grab another handful of fries.
When we put on
our coats, she gives us promotional calendars
for the bar, color photos of golf courses down South
for every month.
I throw mine on the backseat of my car
right next to the other ones that have been lying there for weeks.