Ode to a Bar Napkin

Cell phones next to purses and drink rings,

high heels and those pointy shoes,

red and black stir straws laughing

at the light beer the pastel Polo shirts

wearing fans’ caps from prestigious campuses never seen,

broken tables and wobbly stools blocking thirsty drinkers

bottle-necked, ostrich-headed peering over hair lines.

Bar tenders frantically taking orders cash cash-cards shit

for tips tips tips thrown towards her low-cut t-shirt

showing just enough cleavage - just enough - that male

tenders may be slightly cautious-while-sober

for her safety, as stiff girls (white) without rhythm try,

just as hard as the DJ on stage mixing songs

to please the gargling greedy mob

brought together by common interests -

sex booze luck - and popular tunes.

The dance floor like the Nile

often floods and recedes

by topical seasons and music tracks -

breaking all those racial barriers while

all the king’s horses

and all the king’s men

put them back together again.

(This region breeds strong-shelled eggs.)

The night moves on as crossed-armed bouncers,

large by some means of chest bicep head

spring into action to stop a fight.

Bottles hearts names are made and broken,

numbers given and retained, handed out and denied,

some getting lucky for at least one night,

others left to drink loneliness down to the bottom

and another and again and

a pastiche of bottles glasses cups makes a beautiful

scene and a decent photo

telling a story as old as love alcohol mankind

itself. And a little too much perhaps,

so we don’t know we’re getting too loud or closed-minded,

while words are screamed midst the music sound tsunami

drowning laughs and understanding.

keys are mentioned wrestled taken,

cab riders ride since the taxi service is

stored in phones along

with a text unnoticed earlier of a friend

nailed with a DUI - again. Again? Damn.

It’s 2 or 3am, the bouncers bouncing around

yelling impolitely, brooms dustpans egos in hand

with brains left in the back seat of someone’s car

shere they may have gotten drunk-lucky once before.

A stumbler swims to his car and eventually drives away

making it safely home to lock the keys inside,

opening the apartment door after failed attempts

at breaking and entering via Visa card, four-digit pin,

and enough surprisingly lucid loud lucky profanity

to wake a barely sleeping roommate.

Chairs turned upside-down-on-tables now,

floors swept clean of flicked cigarette butts

ashes straws spilled beer liquor hopes

and the commonly unused wadded-up napkins sticking

rolling tumbling off-tables-onto-floor -

a few retain a now lost phone number dirty joke lipstick lips

and, perhaps, this.