Forty-six years ago, Bobby opened the doors and let us in. Battered and peeling even then, it was our sanctuary of truth. We learned fast to come and go in groups on its sketchy street and did we ever.
The music was loud, the drinks cheap, and the light low enough to mantle the next morning's regret. Going to the ladies was a euphemism you learned quickly and wasn't for the faint-hearted.
Then the world decided yes, you're allowed.
Our once forbidden asylum became a realtor's brag.
They promised us grays a fancy plaque.
I'd rather have my heaven back.