Just In Impression

I used to be cool. 

Made enough to pay my bills 

spending what I lacked 

at the bar.

Whiskey ginger,  

washes down 

a whiskey back.

 

Jibber-jabber

out in the peristyle, 

joint passing 

mouth 

to mouth.

 

Not a handshake—

a bicep squeeze,

an ass grasp— 

to say hello in these parts.

 

            “What do you do for work?” 

Coke in the end stall 

            “Want another bump?” 

wedding ring clings 

against the makeshift shovel 

that reads Ford.

 

Sweetened salvia strings

us together

spilling whiskey across 

fresh leather 

corralled under lights 

tracing out hits of 

Lady Gaga, Madonna.

            “Want to come over?”

I’ll just throw up here.