Bookhouse / Yacht Club: The COVID Casualties

Lyrics

That last Tuesday... I think it was March.
The menu was a worn-out copy of *Moby Dick*.
I felt the spine crackle in my hands.
Ordered the same old thing.
You know the one.
The red curtains were pulled tight.
The fireplace wasn't on.
Just the low hum of the coolers and the quiet talk from the Yacht Club in back.

And then the world just... stopped breathing.
The doors locked for a week, then a month.
Then Andrew's note, posted online.
He said with a heavy heart...
"We just couldn't make it work."
No. You couldn't make it work.

Laura Palmer's picture still smiling that prom-queen smile.
The black and white floor holding still.
I remember tracing the cracks in the red leather booth.
Thinking nothing of it.
Telling the bartender, "See you soon."
Soon was a word that meant something then.
It was 2020.
We didn't know.

And then the world just... stopped breathing.
The doors locked for a week, then a month.
Then Andrew's note, posted online.
He said with a heavy heart...
"We just couldn't make it work."
No. You couldn't make it work.

May thirty-first.
That was the date.
I drove by once.
Just a piece of paper taped to the glass.
Nine thirty-one Ponce de Leon... a vacant address.
Another story finished mid-sentence.

I never found out how the book ended.
The one I was using as a menu.
Guess it doesn't matter now.