Happy Hour?
We are three at the bar,
four if you count Sam.
The man to my right
has whiskey on ice,
he stinks of 49 cent cigars.
His hand is wrapped around his glass
like a squid to a submarine.
His tie hangs loose like a noose
on a man forced to the gallows pole.
The man at the corner
hides under a faded Seahawks cap
and claps at the college game.
A pitcher and pint glass in front of him,
he pours so much it seems
like a waste of time.
Behind the bar Sam stands tall,
a rag hangs from his belt.
He looks over us
like a shepherd to his flock.
There is a chill
in the breath of the place.
Death mixes with the peanut shells.
We could all use a nap
in the dirt,
and I'm pretty sure
we all have women somewhere
who'd be just fine with that.
Steve Barker lives and writes in Seattle where he's the stage manager for the reading series Cheap Wine & Poetry. His first chapbook "Rum Shots' is available through Jacob Brooke Press. For more information check him at www.myspace.com/barkker.
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