all these flies in the room

.


getting the hang of timing a
twelve top, with appetizers, plate
splits, and side dish manipulations
utterly alien from the printed menu,
i sit.

bar stool back rest collecting
perspiration, and squeaking against
wet, polyester scratched, cotton soothed
skin.

across the barroom, i see lives
creased into the faces of co-workers,
sitting and drinking and keeping
separate from my sobriety.

i order an iced tea, and
ignore disbelieving scoffs,
scuttles and retreats to where
comfort and companionship are
chemically enhanced.

huddled around
dysfunctional over-foaming,
under beer-ing taps, a semi-circular
conversation never makes its way
around to me. i was sold an image of
"a restaurant with a bar, not
a bar with a restaurant," but
after hours swing shift soirées
plop caustic thinner over
melting stain and a peeling off
layer of smooth skin over decalcified
and crumbling cheek bone structure.


.