The window already left

Transfer board went red while I was mid-chorus. Somebody cursed. Somebody laughed. I bought the bar a round I could not afford and finished Transfer Window Blues like the hop was optional and the room was not. That is berth-bar country: you do not sing the empty cockpit. You sing the crowded booth that still wants a next song.

Coil-steel shone under whiskey lamps and neon through the viewport. A clerk in a customs vest requested Credstick and a Smile like it was a prayer with a credit limit. I winked at the case and played it dirty-clean — talk-sung grit, belt on the hook, no fragile whisper pretending loneliness is the only honest mood.

If you were the one who stayed after the window closed — I saw you. Bring a round next time if you can. Or just bring your throat. KSPI keeps the soft hours warm for swagger too. The resonator will still be in tune.