Even Queen St must be confused by now ...
Even Queen St must be confused by now with the state of me, let alone everything else that changed. When I first showed up, Tom was already writing a eulogy for the strip and that's an old song now. A song carried in a room on the street with a particularly good view of all the things won and lost. And there stands my glass, on that bar, where we all showed up to love each other and listen to music together.
I suspect it's just as tricked as I am, by all of us who walked out and never came back, or came back changed. As in, wasn't Bill just here warning us all of tracheal gonorrhea, Cardinal Bembo, foreign policy, and the joy of deviled eggs, passing by my parents who sat just over there? And wasn't this whole Bill story itself just told to someone new, standing beautiful at the bar last year, who likely won't return?
But the bar doesn't seem to strain against changes here and holds still for us to hinge while we swing through the doors. It probably knows, in fact, where all the rockabilly girls have gone and where we will go too.
So it feels like a good place for me to sit too, and wait. To watch the streetcar fill the front window and leave. To wait for one band to pack up, and then the next one to get started.