placed above the hotel lobby’s bar.
Some guy in a white Blackhawks jersey
hoisting the Stanley Cup above his head
and he’s smiling so hard, it looks like
all the stubble from his playoff beard
will burst from his face. At this moment,
as I wait to check in for the night that
I have a sick feeling in my heart.
Like a man who’s been betrayed
by his good friend or what I imagine it feels
like to see your wife with another man seated
at the corner table in some dimly lit restaurant.
Again I feel the pain of losing you.
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