Sit in a crowded bar.
Hear the roar of intelligible volume.
Music bass beats disrupting cardiac rhyme.
Shouts, whispers and laugher, all a boom.
Fist bumps and swaying good cheer.
Love and loneliness conflate, swill in beer glass
Bottoms, oh where can I feel this good again?
And why the price to pay bankrupts me.
Write in a thumping pub.
Stool side bar lined drinkers and snackers,
I buzz along the page, noting the din,
An elf pit padding by, no a child.
Bar strip invisible barriers to the dining room,
No walls, balloons, kids and family, clinking wine
Glasses and frosted mugs, steins, clicks, smiles, shouts
Above the music, lyrics swallowed in the mêlée of
Motion and shoveled appetizers and gin, hospitality
And bused trays of bitten bits, refuse, waste, prolifligate
Posterity to posh sea and salt surroundings, spirits and
Song and gathering grand mirrored cheer, happiness
In a thin stemmed crystal–and you, out there somewhere
Celebrating your birth, the wonder of survival,
without me, alone with all of your friends
And family, a beer or so inside your belly, thinking of us,
Being with them, and both alone in our own movies.
And so it is, writing in a bar.
Biting at words.
Sculpin IPA on tap.
Payday a week away.
Summer squash in fall, I had to.
No more, no reason.
Ready to say,
“I’ve been out this Friday night.”
Every day’s sameness.
Writing at my desk,
The confines of my chested blues.
Like a cliché gone staler.
But after just one. More.