Mid July, 3AM

Flashing neon lights highlight the broken sign

Outside 'The Silver Coin' in mid July,

The waitress pours another shot of coffee for the three inside,

But questioning deep inside why she's still here at 3AM.

But in this twilight glow, she knows she can't quit,

Can't afford to lose this shit just to luck some ticket

To some shit-kicking job, still fucking be under a critic.

The coffee spills, and she says a quick 'Sorry',

But the drunkard stands up swaying as if playing a zombie,

Says ‘Honey’ with a lecherous grin, though owns no money,

And she steps away, no deference shown, no company,

Just a temperance disguising disgust and an 'I don't give a fuck',

Just a Saturday in mid July, at 3AM, lust,

'The Silver Coin', and a waitress pouring shots for the three inside.

 

Ringing sirens still living in his head,

And the red spreading from the still-warm body

Made him want to see nobody.

That why he escaped here, 'The Silver Coin',

A quiet establishment, a different wealth,

A cup of black coffee, drops of tincture, keeps his mental health well,

A bitter mixture squeezed from life itself,

Rather a pathetic waiter than a paramedic:

Trauma, melodrama - wishes to be past relics to break karma,

A silent witness to life's vitality,

Would gladly trade away a medic's vanity

To make a living here with no 24/7 bloody shit.

Just another Saturday in mid July at 3AM,

'The Silver Coin', and a paramedic visualising life.

 

The nightclub's bass still thumping in his ears,

Cheap alcohol under his breath be numbing emotion,

Suppressing the tears, he just wanna disappear,

Only the notion of fear keeps him frozen in routine,

Life and death pulling at depression, say 'fuck this notion', this regime,

And he knows he ought to have fought back like Wolverine,

Should have stopped this, would have done that, could have intervened

(Now do you regret this, do you regret that) between yesterday's fiend,

Waitress spills coffee, and he don't know why but he stands up,

'Fuck her', but she steps back, imagination going right back

Like everything was a mirage, lust gone with the dopamine and wine,

Left him alone with closed projects, a path to decline,

Just another Saturday in mid July at 3AM,

'The Silver Coin', and a drunkard too far gone from himself.

 

Faint light breaks the horizon, over 4AM, premature,

Neon lights, indistinct like unsure whether it's tomorrow,

Outside, in mid July, a state-of-the-art sorrow,

No cars as the drunkard departs into the cold,

Slumping 'gainst the wall, hoping his counterpart'd lift him home,

Mind's shackles still clamping an empty heart, left only battle scars,

The paramedic pays his bills, entrusts this night to time to forget,

But can no longer fight 'gainst his memories, his own silhouette,

As the cold saps his energy, futilely tryna find a remedy,

And the waitress wipes the counter inside 'The Silver Coin',

See them leave, with unchecked bills around her - a drunkard archetype,

But too tired to ask the required question, she risks being fired.

Just another Saturday in mid July at 4AM anyways,

'The Silver Coin', and the cold sips the last coffee of the day.