happy hour

the drinking begins at 6 pm
in the common share,
kickballers huddled in pre-game
drunkenness, laughing over
pilsners and guiness

staring at me in 10 second intervals

wondering why i'm alone--
it's how i enjoy drinking/
the alcoholic way/
a camel light burning slowly
away the day's expectations
and bringing on the night
smoke glowing gold in the setting
sun disappearing behind Staccato

i command the jukebox/
7 songs late 90s hiphop
or late 80s conscious rap
i settle for early 21st century
britpop and the white folks
are surprised or intrigued or
just waiting for my song to end
so they can play early 80s pop
late 60s rock or whatever their
friend says spilling Blue Moon
over the edge of the bar

the hours here roll over
like anytime minutes/
women strut in as if this is LOVE
or H20 and who really gives a shit/
all the men do (i am the self-proclaimed
exception)
i dont even see the girls parading
down the narrow walkway with martinis
and chiraz

attention is cheaper than the beer specials

lust is a marvin gaye song away

in a bar, everyone's hip, until they stop drinking

if you stumble out of the bar, you've had too much

i never stumble

i always have too much