Me

It doesn’t matter how much they pour,

Who travels through the door here

Conversations

Drown the sound of my

Alone ness.

It emanates in waves as I sip

Pushes the rest away and good

I don’t like them.

Even the barkeep forgot

I was waiting.

A Man moves too close to my thigh

While his date sits

Flirting with the bartender

And all his Scotch.

I scootch left

Because none of this is right.

Except the pour

And the smoothe wooden surface

Of this candlelit pub

Playing 80’s music that reminds

Me

How old I am.

At the same moment, it makes me tap my foot in remembrance of

What was dancing.

Sometimes I must be

The observer and the listener,

And the woman by her self

Yearning makes the meeting sweet,

I smile at that

And order another.