We don’t dance here anymore.
We balance on wobbly stools
and order PBRs with whiskey backs,
sidestepping the looks we tend to give
each other in the mirror behind the bar.
Tonight is Christmas Eve again.
Again, tonight is Christmas Eve.
Reflected in a frosted window
framed by multicolored lights,
our waitress wears a miniskirt
and candy cane-striped tights.
Her laugh rings like the silver
bell of tomorrow’s hangover.
We are not the ones racking
another game of eight-ball
or feeding the jukebox or
tossing darts at the wall.
That’s not us, the hipster couple
exchanging sardonic repartee,
clever tattoos comingling as
they trade kisses in the corner.
Could that ever have been us?
Here is where we *****
it up and tamp it down.
Here is where we wait
for our future to finish
its careful unwrapping.
Here is where we say
thank you and drown,
tangled together in
ribbons of twilight.