Sunday Morning
The floor was slanted so much so that
the barstools leaned into the bar
Everyone was yelling across the room
requesting different sporting events
on certain TVs
Spicy bloody marys made my eyes water
It was like one big family forced
together for a drunken holiday
We did a shot with the bartender
who complained about the off-duty
bartender who would only stop feeding
her tip money into the gaming machine
long enough to get a drink
like a dolphin coming up for air
She’s a slut, she said
She’ll sleep with anyone
The skinny guy next to me
wearing a trucker’s hat and funky glasses
leaned over and asked:
Would you rather be a ghost
or a vampire?
A ghost, I said
Why? he asked
I don’t want to steal from people, I said
How would you be stealing from people? he asked
By sucking their blood, I said
But you’d be giving them eternal life, he said
Death is the mother of beauty, I said
Wait? What? he asked
and took off his hat and ran his fingers
through his long black hair
Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last few decades in the Chicago area. www.jasonfisk.com
