I keep time
with celery, stir
the horseradish sediment
in my extra bloody Mary.
Swish, swish, swish.
Tick tock.
Long drags
of tomato cocktail.
More Tabasco.
The young man in a Misfits tee
on the stool next to mine
not-so-subtly
eyes my spread:
Mostly blank sheets of paper
crossed-out words
a thesaurus
a Papermate ballpoint Flexgrip
another drink.
What are you writing?
A novel
a eulogy
erotic Twilight fan fiction
my last will and testament
or maybe
I’m just signing the check—
but I’m not speaking to him,
and he’s vacated already;
I’m talking to Mary
on an empty stomach
with a flaming tongue
and some time to kill.
This article appears in March 2014.
