hollow halved peanut shells
collected in a corner
escapees of the latest sweep
and sometimes the past potential
is illuminated by the bar back
structured tightly as it is with bottled rows
buzzing as streetcars roll by
smoke no longer hangs in the air
silent and still as a spirit frozen between songs
but the scent is still strong and the mood softly permeates
bleeding out onto Queen Street beyond
echoes of shoes hammered from iron wrestle
with seat warmers hammered by time
checkerboard sawdust tears barely
hidden by trick windows
rattled cracked open
and consumed
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