The neon sign's piping glows cool amber
through the glass's core like an unholy
halo, drowning in the now half-empty
bottle of Miller. The liquid calls me
home, sliding down my throat, tickling my tongue.
As I see her slight figure framed by light—
dipping at the waist, my fingers begin
to trace the curves, her body full, alive.
"Picture" by Kid Rock comes on the jukebox,
while the guys knock down a last round of pool.
She sweats through a humid night in Fort Knox.
Drops sit on her neck like pretty faux pearls—

I cradle the bottle like a blue sin.
Taking another sip, I drink her in.