Closing Ritual Steven D. Schroeder Sunday night, Monday      morning really, smoke           still embalming the room, she gathers full ashtrays      from empty tables, retreats           behind the bar and prepares to scour with the same rag      she wipes on wood scars           and soggy cardboard coasters. The jukebox      volume stumbles brokenly           as it coughs up "Free Fallin’" for the ninth time tonight.      Dumping the remains           from plastic urns, she scrubs—pausing      only to taste her own           cigarette and brush back restless bangs—until the cloth      soaks black and her hands           seem bitter and poisonous. She grinds lotion      over the odor. Closing           time in fifteen minutes. A stranger at the end      of the bar plays video-crack,           and Denny D shoots darts with his crew, who’ll beg      for a final pitcher of Bud           and blow the keg. She reaches for her ashtray, ignores      the others—each one holds           tiny dying splinters.

---