the rix mix

Buddy, you created this bar
& now we have to work in it
so you can hang out with us.

I served you an awful draft beer
in something like a hookah,
charged you seven bucks for it,
you drank it right down,
it was cold, humans get thirsty
even when you're asleep.

I told you I was going off-duty
& you should move to the tables
over by the bandstand, your friend
from the job you quit ten years ago
is playing, I know he sucks,
but the waitress is one of us.

Interestingly, you stayed in your seat,
eyed the woman resembling Joanne Woodward
in "The Fugitive Kind" where she played
an alcoholic nymphomaniac,
she's one of us, too. Believe me,
you're not getting laid with her.
Then you fumbled with your change,
dropped it on the floor,
stuffed it in your wallet -
you have pair of tens in there
if you can find someone else to serve you.
Or you might have enough for taxi fare
since you're wondering where you are
& how you're getting home.
Let me reassure you, this bar is
approximately where you think it is.

True, you're more comfortable
around us because your poet friend
advised you to be more sociable,
but you still don't have a clue
what questions to ask.

Labels: dreams, poem