by Nicholas Friedman
Caught in the amber glow of a Yuengling sign,
they crouch like jockeys eager at the gate.
The regulars trade nods—each face half-sunk
into a nest of dark and heavy hands—
and sip bad whiskey till they’re Christmas-drunk,
each lifted glass a prayer for auld lang syne.
The wind tugs at the snow like tinsel strands.