Home / Creative Corner / Poetry / Road House

Road House

When we’re hungry and every place is closed,

we go to the road house at the end of the line.

We all stop there.

Someday I’ll go to the road house for breakfast at

midnight and smile at the stars, listen to crystal violins

and never worry about anything any more.

by Frank Friel

Frank Friel, cut man, writer and featured guest on the Yandy Project Podcast ep. 01.

Take a Listen


About YP Staff

Check Also

1958 by Frank Friel

Memory from skidrow: A  “greasy spoon” With a counterman, boney and belligerant, In a stained …

I WORK NIGHTS by Frank Friel

I walk halls and corridors empty except for me. My shadow follows along the walls …

WELDER by Frank Friel

Behind the metal mask, Reflecting the pulsing flash Like lightning against a thunderhead. The welder, …

Leave a Reply

[mc4wp_form id="272"]
%d bloggers like this: