we're standing at the end of the bar
paired with mirroring glasses:
2x warm-honey whiskey for her,
2x bitter-burn vodka for me,
_(she's fierce
_i'm transparent,
_we drink to our personalities)
but without ice.


nothing stays long in the glass, anyway.


there's smoke and intangible haziness
and we christen the evening
to the thrumming guitar
of counting crows,
chat with the the bartender
who recognized us each night
who didn't ask about the ice
whose name was john-with-an-h,
confirming for us the fact
there's just some places
you're meant to be.





an old man at the bar
gives lauren a hard time about her
retro-trend shirt with the
reproduced flyer advertising bob dylan,
asks her if she can quote a line
or sing a song back to him

which she can't.

i can't either
and though we've both read his poetry
--that tarantula mess--
we don't bother to mention it


i can hear the old guy's voice
purling in my head,
heavy with ireland and weariness
that floated along his surface
like the foam on his beer:

"damn kids."






i couldn't help but worry
we'd be the last disappointment
in his life,
two young regular somethings
burning out their throats
in an attempt to scorch their hearts
and feel anything.