Stendhal Syndrome Between Sips

The two of them came
from one of my Vietnams;
far enough up the Thruway to be safe
but close enough to know
that one I should have roped.
It was the night before Thanksgiving.
Regret was on my mind.

Invited to their table
I took the bait
leaving rotten friends
to hold up the oak.
Eight minutes in
I realized it wasn't me they wanted.
I'll never see
the rest of that partially visible tattoo
or learn where those feather earrings hang
when not being worn
or suffer through a bursting bladder
while curly hair is straightened
behind a bathroom door.

"Can you find us some coke?"
the pussy huckster pleaded.
"Just a gram," clarified her friend
not wanting to seem greedy.

"Sucker" it must've said across my face;
or "Desperate";
"Clearly understanding of
addictive personalities".

I smirked like a pastor
resisting heinous laughter
at this dirty joke
and rose with my pint glass
in search of better heroine.

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