Finality.
Finnish girls in micro minis
dance
prance kind of
jiggle across the
stage
sweet sixteen Swedes
rub their ***** in their
hypothetical fathers
faces
chicks freshly hatched
still slimy and warm
from the womb
wrap their
maternal gifts
and parts
on poles hiding behind
what small articles
are left on
their pale pink
bodies.

Downing my
scotch,
waving over a fresh
one.
Finally
alone
in a room filled familiarly
with sadness and sweat
men’s pupils enlarge
in the smoke screened
darkness.
I hide
behind the dignity
I don’t have left
over
a feeling spreads
through each cell
membrane to sedate
and mirror
the faces of girls
on stage
who have resigned.
Similarly,
I fired
myself from this
position. “Sorry,”
I mutter into the spaces
in between the
scotch and the rocks,

“It’s just not working out.”
Mentally, I empty
what remains inside into a
small cardboard box
wrap
my arms around
my drunken insides
and stand
shameful like
a guilty dog.

My back is turning
to mirror girls’
stony eyed solitude,
Tiny Finnish dancers
finish up their act
as I, reaching the door,
walk out.