Happy Hour Sonnet

My whisky sour leaves rings on the old bar’s
oak. Absentminded in this dusty place
two lo­cals ar­gue over noth­ing. Wars
of log­ic drown in weak beer with­out grace

or urg­ing. Drunken mus­cle in­sults — brace
for im­pact
 — bare­fist­ed op­po­nents glare.
The leer­ing bar­tender will get a taste
an­oth­er run­away led to his lair.

She fol­lows, dead al­ready, be­hind where
old Sloe Gin pumps lewd off-time play­er tunes.
An ice cube set­tles in my glass. I stare
at the rings, fad­ed in­ter­sect­ing new.

This song and this tale has more than two sides,
men blind to this form rad­i­cal di­vides.

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