A Round In Purgatory - Noaa Rienecker

The bartender is pissed off
and I am pissed off
and everybody is stuck here at the airport
and all I can afford
is a soda water
which I am surprised
to be charged for.

The other elbows
resting on this slab
are wrapped in fine linen
that opens in cuffs and collars.
There are good jobs
with stock options
paying the tabs
all around me
and I have quit all my jobs
and my bare nipples
are less than concealed
by the straps
of my dirty overalls.

I have twenty dollars
in my pocket
and negative one hundred fourteen
in my bank account.

The bartender sees in me
nothing more than
a worthless pile of snot and grime -
(and I half agree with him tonight)
the weight of the ore
he might sift from this particular dirtclod
is negligible at best.

Nobody laughs at jokes
about getting drunk
here,
we’re all drinking
but I guess
to point it out
is faux pas,
or the mood
is too grim,
or I am simply
not funny.

The Freeloader’s Gland
in my brain
secretes visions
of the wealthy woman beside me
growing drunk and flirty,
chatting me up,
touching my knee,
buying me a beer.

I sip my club soda loudly
and nobody looks
at anybody else.

The bartender, expressionless,
suddenly chucks the remainder
of my wealthy mistress’ pizza
in the trash,
and I flinch,
involuntarily throwing
a hand out
and choking
a cry of protest.