Neon Barbot, Last Call

Beneath the neon sign, the night hums soft. A chrome-faced drifter sips a bright slow glow. Its eyes are veiled by bands of pulsing light, While circuits dream of streets in rain below. Glass sweats in cyan, magenta stains the air, The counter holds the echo of a song. No heartbeat—still it lingers, almost warm, As city lights keep saying: move along.