Peter Burghardt Karaoke at the White Horse

Maybe what we work towards is a real boundary, a noun with no verb to plumb its depths. From the corner, I can barely feel the steady stream of vaccinations digging into bathroom conversations. Maybe it's a bit forward, but at least the night accepts the pinball wizard for who he is, his acts for what they do. If asked, he might even have something to say about the visitors in town from Princeton, how way west their prefixes plummet like gold dust in the sluice. Somebody unplugs the jukebox, and for a second I hear the milk bottle's unattended face roil in its cage. No one pays attention anyhow, the show's about to begin, and that's why we come--our hope faith the pup as he skits licks against his master.

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