On Coping.

"I just don't get it. They act like
it will somehow change their whole lives
if they chop all their hair off
or go clothes shopping
when the fat lady's done singing..."

I slide the tip closer to his edge of the oak
as he dries a glass with a dirty rag
and waits for me to finish my rant.

"...Or they call to let you know
how much mind-blowing sex they're having
with the vultures
and how much better it is, or will be
once a time and a place are set.
Then the line goes silent for a few seconds
while they wait for some kind of response
and you try not to laugh into the receiver.
Why do women think that whoring it up
will somehow ruin your life?, which is going nowhere
anyway according to their spiteful phone calls
at two in the morning."

I stir the ice cubes around
with the two little, red
double-barreled
cocktail straws
and drain the remains as he takes his cue
and switches hats.

"Because they're all fucking crazy, man,
and don't know how to handle losing guys like us..."

This is the kind of service people who attend
an empty Monday Happy Hour come for.
He further guarantees himself a good tip:

"...They spread their legs because they can't
bounce back from it like we can.
They're in denial that the loss is their own.
This next one's on me, you ready?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I say with a sly smile
as I make a mental note to thank her
for suggesting I go back to living how I did before
she tried to save me
from myself.

I'll get around to that when I'm damn well ready.




Currently reading:
"Ariel" by Sylvia Plath.