Happy Hour

Getting drunk alone
is not a laughing matter.
At least I don’t have to listen
to the incessant chatter of a small man
making believe
he’s an intellectual.
At least if it were a woman,
her breasts would be a nice change
from the blah blah blah.
But what are the odds of that?
Walking all over my soul with the chatter
is nothing but mind numbing.

Trying so desperately to talk
Faulkner,
Byron,
Hemingway,
Oh fuck…
and Shakespeare.
Correcting the bartender on how to’s.
Small mouths trying to talk big,
arguing,
soiling what is left
of my everyday.

Leave me alone with my beer,
drunken soul and my own
decrepit thoughts.

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