“Closing Time” by Michael Simms

I remember how strangers turned to each other,
locked gazes, nodded and headed out the door
for desperate grappling in the narrow space of the car
or the more careful groping in a lonely home.
Our need was unbearable as we watched ourselves
watching ourselves in the mirror behind the bottles
while outside it was raining again in Houston.
If we'd known these were the last days of the empire
we'd surely have been more careful in our longing.
We'd have chosen kindness over pity, desire over
desperation and not spent our loneliness on lovers
we'd soon forget. But that was long ago
and you and I have been saying only
each other's names in the dark for forty years now

You love the last light in the tops of trees,
the tall absence between the swaying branches and the sky
and below the trees, dark porches, dark lives
lit by a computer screen and you and I alone together
forever. Remember when we first arrived
broke and hungry? Beside the parkway a billboard
implored Will the last one leaving Pittsburgh please
turn out the lights? Then we entered a tunnel
under the very mountain where we'd spend
every evening the rest of our lives in the light
I've spent decades trying to describe

Artist Statement

As a young man I performed spoken word with jazz bands in various cities throughout the south. I usually performed in the last set near midnight when the audience was half zonked. My heroes were Chet Baker and Jack Kerouac; unfortunately, I adopted not only their improvisational aesthetic but also their lifestyle. Addiction killed both Chet and Jack and nearly killed me. I kicked drugs in my early thirties and later met a wonderful woman whom I married. Eva and I moved to Pittsburgh in 1987 and started our family. The last forty years have been a gift.

Michael Simms is the editor of Vox Populi and the founding editor emeritus of Autumn House Press. His latest novel is The Hummingbird War (Madville, 2026), and his latest poetry collection is Jubal Rising (Ragged Sky, 2026).