I slam the glass on the table,
it shatters. The simplicity of action
and consequence allows me a smile.
The bartender knows I am drunk.
I do not mind. I clean up the mess,
beg off forgiveness, order another.
He is skeptical but the tab is open
and the money is good. He has two
kids at home, he does not need to
babysit here as well. I am spilling
down my shirt but I don’t mind.
The drink is good. The TV is on
but it shows nothing. It is too late
to have anything worth any attention.
I should have left earlier, perhaps, but
there is a measure of freedom in being
at a bar alone. She is in bed. Someone
else’s if I am lucky, mine if I am not.
It has proven to be an even coin toss
these days. I look at no one.
I talk to no one. There are few others
in the bar. I finish the drink
and look up. The bartender
shakes his head. I scowl but
underneath I understand. I am
someone’s mess to clean up.
I do not mind. I stand.
Fingers gripping the table seeking
equilibrium. Take a look around,
and stumble toward a man I don’t
know, much larger than I. There are
a few things I decide to let slip that
I have heard about him and his mother.
He doesn’t appreciate my honesty.
I throw the first punch and none more.
I apologize for bleeding on the floor.
He splits the skin in the corner of my eye.
I laugh and another snaps my nose.
The concrete feels good against my
wet cheek and I decide this may not be
a terrible place to rest.