The Neon Ledger
The sun goes down, but the accounting begins.
Glowing red tubes buzz against brick, writing the night’s inventory in light.
Open late.
Cold drinks.
Hot food.
Cash only.
Every flickering sign is a promise kept to a neighborhood that doesn’t sleep.
We trade our hours for wages, and our wages for a slice of the neon glow.
The ledger always balances in the dark.
