You can find me, at the bar
half down a shot and half callin’ for another
girls name half out of my mouth an evening lived in infamy
young Amy rode a one seater plane
first class sip of orange juice.
at the bar
half into another
leavin’ a tale at the bar like a weary traveler
on the way to a plane
to catch another flight
to another bar
to tell the same story
on a different line wondering why the story never changes
how the tellings never evolved from ear to ear.
In a home that I recognize from dreams of a young child
making a drink in my own bar
remembering the stories I lived in another
it’s a little different, lost and confused
with a droopy eye, almost asking for it-
and I’ll feel something close to uneasy
but after another drink
it’s a different story.