End of the Line
by Jeffery Allen Tobin
There’s a rhythm to this madness,
the way night falls like a curtain
and people forget to go home.
It’s the same with life--
some just don’t know when to leave,
clutching their bottles like lifelines
in a sea that won’t stop churning.
There’s a guy at the end of the bar,
he’s been staring into his glass
like it’s the first piece of truth
he’s seen in years.
His hands shake, but his eyes are steady--
a hard acceptance there,
like he’s read the last page of his story
and he’s just waiting for it to sink in.
Death, he’s like the bartender,
never rushes you, just wipes the counter,
looks at you with those all-seeing eyes
and occasionally checks the clock.
It’s a quiet understanding,
a nod that says, Take your time,
but remember, we’re closing soon.
And we’re all here, aren’t we?
Scribbling our names on the backs
of coasters, writing confessions
in the rings our glasses leave.
Each sip a silent salute to what we’ve lost--
dreams, lovers, years,
the sobering clarity of a last call.
There’s no grand revelation here,
no choir, no burst of light--
just the slow, steady drumming of time,
the understanding that the night ends,
the bar closes,
and the streetlights flicker out one by one.
So, here’s to the end, the last drink--
may it taste like acceptance,
like the peace of knowing you’ve had enough,
and it’s time to let the darkness in,
soft and certain as a closing door.
the way night falls like a curtain
and people forget to go home.
It’s the same with life--
some just don’t know when to leave,
clutching their bottles like lifelines
in a sea that won’t stop churning.
There’s a guy at the end of the bar,
he’s been staring into his glass
like it’s the first piece of truth
he’s seen in years.
His hands shake, but his eyes are steady--
a hard acceptance there,
like he’s read the last page of his story
and he’s just waiting for it to sink in.
Death, he’s like the bartender,
never rushes you, just wipes the counter,
looks at you with those all-seeing eyes
and occasionally checks the clock.
It’s a quiet understanding,
a nod that says, Take your time,
but remember, we’re closing soon.
And we’re all here, aren’t we?
Scribbling our names on the backs
of coasters, writing confessions
in the rings our glasses leave.
Each sip a silent salute to what we’ve lost--
dreams, lovers, years,
the sobering clarity of a last call.
There’s no grand revelation here,
no choir, no burst of light--
just the slow, steady drumming of time,
the understanding that the night ends,
the bar closes,
and the streetlights flicker out one by one.
So, here’s to the end, the last drink--
may it taste like acceptance,
like the peace of knowing you’ve had enough,
and it’s time to let the darkness in,
soft and certain as a closing door.
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores US foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. Currently affiliated with Florida International University, he contributes to both the academic community and the policymaking sphere. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.