Wednesday, October 07, 2009
There's a cord between me and the bar on the way home.
It pulls, gently, at my center of gravity,
bending the path of my steps if I am not paying attention.
Pulling towards Susan, the Duchess of Happy Hour,
towards a a drink or two or five
while I wait for the Muse.
Most nights she stops by;
she's reliable in that way.
She leans up against the counter,
lithe and smiling,
and we work together
before she catches the late train home.
I am selling off my life
one shot of speed-rack vodka at a time,
cutting the straps that dig into
my arms, my shoulders, my hands.