Club Airport, the only rough
black-bricked building downtown
with a neon red awning, peeling
white logo of a plane circling
a martini glass, although thirty miles
from any real travel hub.
An exclusive terminal with bald
bouncers and a throbbing beat heard
from the sidewalk, shrill college girls
sway in the streets, shedding silver
speckles on nearby shadows.
DJ bobbing, bodies slinking, ladies
throwing their heads back as men yell
for more shots. Clear liquid sloshes
on top of the counter, a runway for drinks
to land, take-off, and return to the bar again.
But vacation, this nocturnal break has ended
for the guy with the X on his hand, thrown
into the frigid morning for a gritty brawl he
will forget and plum bruises lining his jaw
to remind him.