Who hits on a Jack and a 10?

Hadn't thought of her for days, new blood in my veins
until I had the misfortune of running into a cow-
orker I hadn't seen in weeks.
Witnessing my thick beard for the first time
he asks, "What happened?"
I tell him I've been trying to attract older women
for a change. He shrugs it off and tells me he worked
for Helmet & Scronin last week and their foreman
Quiet Kev the Carpenter asked for me.
My toes curl in my workboots as I wonder
if that guy ever realized that stain on the wall of his living room
came from a beer bottle intended for his
daughter's pretty face, and/or tight torso
the night I found out she didn't come over
because she had invited her ex over to play Blackjack
and God only knows what else, and lied about it.
Johnny asks why I'm zoning out
so I make something up
about a hangover that's had me out of it all day.
A fellow drunk should understand, but he knows better
since we've hit them pretty hard together after work before
and both been fine the next morning, exchanging sly looks
of "Yeah, I know you tied one on" in passing all day.
He shakes his head in quiet disbelief, follows up
with "Shave that thing, will you?"
Disregarding his words
I think of that night, how my friends had to follow the cab
I called, against their advice
and pull me out of the house, two long-necks of Killian's
in my coat pockets and whiskey in my gut.

I guess it's time to call it even:
I made a whore of her, she made a monster of me.

I tell Johnny the truth, in a way, since we both know
no man likes older women, experience or not:
"I'm better off in hiding for now," then mutter
something about mirrors under my breath
which only confuses him further.
The small talk runs dry. As we shake
hands the grease and copper filings
that come with being a plumber
laugh at me from under my nails.
I know the scrubbing in the shower later will be useless;

some dirt only comes off with time.