Mecca Lounge

At the Mecca Lounge, people parked
across the street, their bad hair days
smelled like falling down flights of
stairs and missed mortgage payments.
These were some real happy people.

At the Mecca Lounge, you could steal
your mother’s convertible or your Dad’s
old hat, put Waylon Jennings on the jukebox
three times
and consider yourself an outlaw that night.

At the Mecca Lounge, you could
drink two dollar Long Islands with boxing
legends, their Little Hands of Stone
punched stuttered stories and once bright
limelights like cellophane piñatas.

At the Mecca Lounge, a Chevy Silverado
smashed through the shuffleboard table
and into the lady’s room. The bar closed
down and that’s a damn shame because
Mike made a mean Long Island.

Pittsburgh-based poet Fred DeMeo, originally from Phoenix, has been writing in different corners of the country since the 1990s. He has recently been published in several venues, including Appalachian Review. His work draws on personal experience, urban landscapes, pop culture, and usually bicycles.