The Bartender
At the bar, you sit to
the left of me,
though I thought I
told you, I prefer you
on the right
The bartender nodded
his head up, then down,
soon handing me
my usual, and a plate
with three extra limes
You’re pointing at the
big screen TV, shouting with
some strangers,
about some players,
as I’m given one more
drink, and more citrus
My purse sits on the seat
beside me, as I rummage
through it for no reason
other than boredom,
to look busy,
to feel less lonely
The bartender asks if
we’re ready to order,
and you ask what I like,
before he interrupts and
says he remembers I
enjoyed the salmon last time
Surprised, shaking your head
in disagreement, you
order the pasta that you
always get, and then fix your
attention to the screen
And I have a third drink
while you’re still on
your first,
like always
Jenna Restel is a New Jersey based writer. She explores grief and memory, and treats her writing as a confessional. You may find her published poetry in Keeping the Flame Alive, Bionik Pu$$y, Rust Belt Press, and more. She has a poem published in the iconic column ‘Walt’s Corner’ of The Long Islander. Jenna is married to her husband, Kane, and they are raising three daughters and two purrfect cats.
