Hereoften
By W.P. Eichler
Just a few more. That should be fine, right?
Twilight’s coming on, but who cares?
I’ve still got a while before that sky
begins to darken.
Besides, they keep giving me drinks,
so I might as well stay.
If I keep going,
I probably won’t get home until we,
no I,
can see the wood grains of the bar
through the bottom of my glass;
I’ve memorized each little scratch,
and made a few more,
because they deserve a chance
to meet someone new, just like me.
That’s what I tell myself.
A few more drinks means a few more friends.
Someone sits next to me, I buy them a drink.
It’s a good system we’ve got going.
There’s something melodic about ice
hitting the bottom of a glass;
next drink I’ll listen to that song a little closer.
I can hear other songs in other people’s glasses –
I don’t really know how they go,
but they sound like the ones people sing at wakes.
For now we swallow the distortion
between us and our songs
so we can’t hear them quite right,
and I fill my stomach with enough songs
it could be a concert hall.
Someone sits next to me, I tell them a story.
It’s a good system we’ve got going.
A drink in my hand, another in theirs.
That means we’re friends,
at least for the moments between the clink, burn, and grin.
But I can see there’s an exit sign on their tongue,
so I ask the bartender for another song,
and she’s got one waiting for me like always.
There’s something snug
about the way a glass fits in my hand.
Her fingers just barely miss mine when I take it,
and I swear that means we’re friends
and I can keep asking her for the same song
that sounds like a hello,
or a how are you,
or something else sincere,
so that maybe I can see an exit sign somewhere
other than someone else’s tongue,
or in the words of a song I can’t hear
because it’s getting late and
I’m starting to carve a door into the bar
that might lead into a night with no songs.
Someone sits next to me, I move a seat down.
It’s a good system we’ve got going.