Friday Afternoon
The bar stool creaks its turn
and I face his face:
worn, furrowed field of flesh.
He continues—drunk as a Friday afternoon,
“We drink, and so we fail,
and so we drink.”
Smoke trails waft from his words,
join their confederates on the ceiling;
linger like we do.
Copper rattles glass,
a yellow finger waves,
another glass is borne to his front.
Susan smiles a little,
collects the coins,
turns to the television on the wall.
And I wait; he inhales, sips, smacks.
“Drunkenness,” he says, “that damned illusion
that the world is good… and loves you.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Yeah,” the old man says.
The bar stool creaks its turn. I turn
to go, glance at his crooked back
and Susan’s breasts.
Folded paper falls on wood,
a commercial chimes a tune
of hope with monthly payments.
Susan smiles a little,
collects the bills,
turns to the television on the wall.
“See you next week,” I say.
“Yeah,” the old man says.
“Yeah,” I say.
The bar stool creaks its turn.
Susan watches TV,
The old man breathes.
Then I walk into the sunlight and cement.