Downtown Buffalo a bustling ghost town  
on a Sunday in February, me & Eric wandering around  
looking for a place to eat before Tool hits the stage  
at KeyBank Center, 20 years in the making for the two of us 
the city though is overrun by metalheads from north of the border 
as if they emerged from a late ‘90s time capsule 
more wallet chain than man, they clank & claw their way 
through the empty streets  

the restaurants, the ones still open, aren’t ready for the influx 
not enough staff, no one put the show on the calendar 
we settle for TGI Fridays because we spot an empty booth 
but when we walk in, everything feels a little off 
the host tells us they only have one server working now 
who looks to be crying in the back corner 
that we might have better luck ordering food if we sit at the bar 
so that’s exactly what we do, we’re lucky 
because a couple guys are leaving, they’re from Toronto 
fresh from a two-hour drive to see their favorite band  

the bartender is wearing one of those high school  
graduating class hoodies, the year 2018 & the name 
of every student, they seem overwhelmed & when we ask  
about appetizers, they snap, “No more ordering food, I’m done!” 
looks like we’re getting overpriced arena chicken fingers then 
when grabbing our beers, the bartender drops a glass & it breaks 
everyone else sitting at the bar hoots & hollers  

suddenly there’s a hand in front of my face clutching  
a pack of empty Senecas, a voice saying, “Can’t you smell that?  
It smells nice, right?” I look next to me 
there’s this middle-aged white dude with eyes like stinkfists  
“There’s a couple of buds at the bottom of the pack, wanna smoke?” 
I politely decline, but he insists on talking 
about how this TGI Fridays has the best burgers in Buffalo 
which is not true, but there’s no convincing him otherwise 
Stinkfist yells, “I would really like to order a burger 
but where are you everyone?” the bartender is gone 
maybe sucked into a wormhole to somewhere better 
maybe wormholes are popping up everywhere in Buffalo 
like it’s the end of Avengers: Endgame  

then things take a turn for the worse, Stinkfist starts talking about 
COVID, how he needs to put a bullet in Biden’s head 
that if Trump was still President, there’d be burgers for everyone 
me & Eric tell him to shut up, to just leave 
he laughs, talks about how he was in prison for 13 years 
for beating the shit out of a cop but before I can comment 
that all cops are bastards, Stinkfist whispers, “White pride” 
that’s it, we all stand up, we’re going to come to blows 
suddenly the bartender reappears, Stinkfist quickly retreats  
toward the exit declaring, “Did I also mention I’m bipolar?” 
Eric tells him, “You should’ve probably opened with that” 
we pay our tab & I tip the bartender a lot, just because 

I head to the bathroom before we leave where I just JUUL 
while staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror 
even because I watched them fall away, I don’t know 
how the pieces fit anymore, I don’t give a fuck 
about souls in motion, Jesus & Mother Mary 
always questioning our second guessing or how poetry 
only happens after we’ve been smoldered, what you look like 
detached from the Fibonacci sequence, the golden hue 
gone from your face like how when the sun drifts  
below the horizon, what are we even doing with our lives?   

I hope that when I leave the bathroom 
the few TGI Fridays employees working this shift  
have walked off the job, all the Canadians 
jammed together in the kitchen making burgers  
Stinkfist on meds or mangled altogether 
the therapy of nonexistence if you don’t make things better 
one final vape blast toward my face 
as I mutter a quiet prayer: although we may spiral out 
keep going, amen  

Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright born and raised in Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Trick Is to Spill Your Guts Faster Than the Snow Falls” (Alleyway Theatre).