They slouch about in their black hoodies
emblazoned with the logos of their favorite watering holes
to watch the country band with the gravelly-voiced singer
everyone wants to fuck
The guitarist is decent but the songs are bland
and colorless, forgotten the moment they're over.
Everyone looks like someone I know
from someplace else. It's early and the place is filled
with families and young children:
three tiny girls link arms and jump wildly about
while a little brother stands and stares,
wanting to be included, or maybe I'm 'just projecting.
My ex and her new man are sitting at the bar
beside me, holding hands. I try to focus
on my wild boar tacos. The joint has wooden floors
and faux Victorian wallpaper. At some point
the drummer's gorgeous wife sashays around the room
holding out a brass spittoon for tips.
A bearded blob in a yellow t-shirt that reads
"Don't be a Dick" dances with a much
slimmer girl. He can barely shuffle
but her hands are all over his girth anyways.
There's a tear in my microbrew,
the spittoon of my heart is about to tip over.
My tongue is a tangled lasso.
There are tumbleweeds between my legs
and baling wire holding my sides together,
keeping my guts from spilling out into the sawdust.