We come to the bar after the movie
because I promised the salesman
who works part time there as a bartender,
and lucky for him we did,
since the dingy place
only has a couple of drunks
clinging to their drinks
to keep them from falling off their stools,
and he, bored enough to fill us in
about what happened at the magazine party
a couple of days ago,
how good she looked, though oddly enough
(our) owner (who) I assume is involved with her ,
drooled over the bartender’s girl instead,
clinging to her like the drunks here
cling to their drinks,
and drunk then as he gets
at the office Christmas parties,
we laughing about it now,
in this dingy place,
though I don’t laugh inside,
wondering how the poet felt,
dressed to kill with nobody there to kill for,
and maybe (a fantasy of mine) just a bit
disappointed I didn’t show up
so she could kill me with looks,
showing off what I’m missing,
and I do miss it.
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