Contributor: Richard Schnap

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It was 3 am. He sat listening to the lonesome cry
Of a train somewhere off in the distance, thinking

About a boy he once knew who sat on the stage
Of a run-down café with an out-of-tune guitar

Singing in a frail voice about people and places
That would either die or simply fade away,

Leaving behind only lingering memories
To be slowly forgotten as the years passed by.

Bars with black walls and mirrored dance floors,
Women with leather jackets and fishnet stockings,

Parties with bands playing in the basement,
Kegs of cheap beer that never seemed to run dry.

It was 3:15 am. He listened again to the train
Growing further and further away while glancing

At the out-of-tune guitar gathering dust in a corner,
Like a ghost that had lost even the will to haunt.


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Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.