{"sf1_id":1945707,"sf2_id":"3egZAEW1","title":"\"A Friday night on Main Street\"","author":"Cris_Fireheart","words":232,"posted_at":"2023-01-16T21:14:56.000Z","tags":["City","Depressing","Emotional","Happy","Hopeful","Human","Longing","Love","M/M","Mates","Music","Night","Poetry","Real Life","Sad","Wolf","good times","gritty","memory","nightlife","nonfiction"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1945707-a-friday-night-on-main-street","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/3egZAEW1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/ef/d3/efd32965-7e6b-43e9-bba9-81d01f690263","description":"I wrote this poem in October 2010, not long after I met my mate. He would always play this battered old acoustic guitar onstage at a club called Deans in downtown Houston. He also used to have a permanent gig as a guitarist at an old metal club called the Engine Room. After awhile, I started going to see him play nearly every time... The photo of the clock tower represents the time we had together. And the time I've lost...","content":"\"A Friday night on Main Street\"  \n  \nIt's Friday night,  \nAnd it's almost ten,  \nSo I've hit the dirty streets,  \nTo meet with some friends.  \n  \nI've left my car keys,  \n\"Forgotten\" my wallet,  \nAnd taken the Metro  \nTo where Main Street begins.  \n  \nI found them at \"Deans,\"  \nUp a floor and a half,  \nSmoking some Black Magic  \nIn the elevator shaft.  \n  \nMy new best friend  \nIs about to perform,  \nBut he's got stage fright,  \nAs such is the norm,  \n  \nOn a Friday night,  \nOn Main Street...  \n  \nBefore he starts playing,  \nHe takes one last drink,  \nThen the music begins,  \nBefore I can think.  \n  \nWhen it's over, they're happy,  \nIt was a nice crowd,  \nBut now it's time to pack up,  \nAnd get the hell out.  \n  \nSo we left his guitar  \nIn the bass player's car.  \nTo go for a walk,  \nBut we won't get too far,  \nUntil we see shadows  \nAnd signs of life,  \n  \nOn a Friday night,  \nOn Main Street...  \n  \nThey tilt from the corners,  \nAnd lean on the walls,  \nTheir palms are held open,  \nTheir gaze always falls.  \n  \nThey ask for a dollar,  \nOr something at all,  \nA smoke or a drink,  \nA simple phone call.  \n  \nOn Fridays like this,  \nI so often give thought,  \nTo those unfortunate souls  \nOur \"fair\" city forgot,  \n  \nIn this land of the plenty,  \nThey have nothing at all;  \nJust a lonely spot,  \n  \nOn Main Street...","series":{"name":"Poetry, both old and new","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1945558-chucky-requiem-for-my-mate.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1945994-mushroom-magica.json"}}