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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