It never intended to be the last.
The original idea was that
Block by block the town
Would build out, suck up the scrub,
Spewing development, be eventually
So much commerce and tax revenue
That it would at first be called
A city, and then be administratively designated
De facto such. But at this exact point
The scheme ran dry. Dry. Dry,
For no reason anyone knows.
No particular shame owed to this
Last property. A fine property, once.
Yet, no establishment can long stand
In good faith against the fact
Of being the end of a town, the gateway
To the wilderness. Inevitably,
The paint fails to renew. The window
Leaning closest to oblivion
Sticks open. The HVAC works
Half the year, you pick which half.
The old red truck on the left
Side of the once even parking lot
Has been there for six years, unsalvageable,
And now trademark of the place.
Go in, and you will find
The menu inaccurate, two
Booths marked off as closed for repair,
The raised glass topped cake display
Empty. When the waitress comes around
A counter three nails short of complete
She will not greet or offer, she will say,
"What brings you here?"
I've had the lease on this place
Since they started scavenging Pluto.
Back then, business was brisk,
I kept a resupply chain
Planned well into a prosperous future, expanded
My comfort companion lofts to all
Six recognized sexes, supported two
Bartenders, two very adjustable cooks,
Twelve bouncers and a variable come-and-go
Wait staff. We were hopping.
But now, Pluto is a bone and half
The Oort cloud is mined out and there just
Aren't as many astrominers about.
It is a good day when I make enough
From all sources to afford the lost air
From operating the leaky entryway airlock.
Sometimes for weeks all we see
Are the stranded ring gamblers, working
The state-of-matter betting applications,
Looking for the payout that will allow them
To buy a ticket to some place
Closer to the sun centering this solar system.
Most of what the few customers want
I haven't got: I had to lay that part
Of the service staff off, or I can't
Guarantee the shippers I can sell enough
To keep what the customer wants in stock,
Or no one in the place knows the ingredients.
When you are the last place worth putting gravity to,
You offer what little you've got, and the customers
Take it, as you are the final nominally
Civilized establishment latched to their system -
And it makes sense for them to kick back
At any last stop before unsettled blackness,
Before they swallow hard and go hunting fatherless rock.
