Weekend Rituals

Thursday night

marks our decompression

with the hiss of CO2

loosed from bottles

and cans

a shush that sparks cheers

amongst the boys

.

Alcohol is the great equalizer—so they say

.

By Thursday night

we stand on counter tops

declaring our existence

and the strength

of our bonds

.

"Thursdays are for the boys!"

we sang

.

Later on, we’ll meet

more liquored friends

on the underground

and tell ourselves

the other patrons

benefit from our

reckless laughter

.

Our joy was contagious

.

Yet it was not the genuine

light heartedness

of children

we would flaunt

but a soggy

disgraceful

commemoration

of pain

.

The nails of masculinity barely hold the table together

.

Where we rally at the pub

to ring in the rounds

of ‘here here!’

to meet women

who will rally with us

in ill-begotten decisions

and wander off into the cemetery

.


Where some visit, carrying flowers

to commiserate with God

and whisper bouts of ‘there there’

.

In the curated field
where the angels were

gorgonized in antiquity

where we go to hide in pairs

and bury each other

with heedless kisses

.

Where, without a prayer, a gravestone slides up your back

the wet hand of a coquettish drunk

now, the hallowed touch

.

2016