David Bowie is dead.
And we’re drinking beer
beneath a canopy of velvet oil paintings
and muted red light, condensation spreading
across the canvas of the old front window.
In the dark we drink to Starman
and Ashes to Ashes and Let’s Dance.
We drink and sing and toast
music’s unfathomable loss,
bitter tastes in our mouths,
in our hearts.
Later, leaving into cold and stars,
unsteady fist-pumps to Life on Mars.