Cocktail Napkin Thoughts

Another poem come and

written and forgotten
on a cocktail napkin,
bussed by the bartender.

I give him a menacing look,
as I watch my words
buried in the bustub
under dirty plates and
sauce crusted napkins.

The bartender comes back
to see if I need anything
else; I don’t even
look up from my page and
point at my empty beer

He pours me another pint
of that euphoric
nectar of the dogs.

I kill half my beer in one
gulp trying to forget that
piece of myself sacrificed
to the trashcan,
the part of my soul I
described with just
like a sign language interpreter
at a concert, translating
words for a deaf audience
who cant hear the music.
I sip on the remainder of my beer,
admiring the hostess at
the restaurant across the
street, who, even in the
early December weather,
wears a short plaid skirt, sexy
stockings, black heels and a
fake teasing smile.

She seats the patrons,
who don’t realize her
job is to act as plastic
as possible.

Isn’t this my job as a writer?
Plasticizing our everyday events
into meaning? Well fuck it!
There’s no meaning in
meaningless interactions

But it’s just as there’s no meaning
or reason behind a cocktail
napkin thought,

almost like a part of me meant
to be disposed of.

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