The poem looks at a sports bar parking lot and treats it as a place that never rests. The title sounds like a clickbait ad, but what follows is grim: urine, vomit, drug haze, and glass from smashed car windows swept up each morning by people with bandaged hands. The "jolly rogers" suggest pirate flags, perhaps graffiti or tags, and the image gives the lot a lawless, plundered feel.
The speaker seems to be watching from a distance, tired and unsurprised. Nothing is shouted. The lot "counts the passage of time" by its messes, as if it were a grim kind of clock. In the last stanza, the speaker turns to "you," who was lit by blue and red lights the night before, which suggests police or emergency vehicles. Now that person sits in the heat, hoping for "better news." The mood is weary, sweaty, and uneasy, a hungover morning where the damage is plain but the hope is small and uncertain.