Lock and Key

I hardly know where to look anymore. Places have a putrid familiarity like the smell of my own sheets or the close air of the kitchen — fishbones on the drain left in the ghastly order of temporal things. I have been sitting in this bar for years now the beer is stale, the wine off-color the music is always the same, old, sad songs that get older no better than endless conversation night after forgotten night when all I or you can recall is the dark, the traffic lights, the bartender's comments about drunk women in public places. I would like to go home finally, down the long streets north and south crossed with small gold leaves; I forget just where the hell anything is. Locked out.