Crossing Lanes
Happy Hour is one drink short
of a buzz,
I try to determine the moment
it all went sour.
I’m looking into the empty glass
wondering where the ‘happy’ went,
did it dissipate on a curling lip
or a sigh?
I find the remote in the back of my mind
where remoteness lives and has its bunker.
It’s been a tough past year, and we’ve barely sipped
this new one, bad joo-joo everywhere.
what with all this apocalyptic crap going on.
Occasionally a camera will capture a look
in a strangers eyes, and I see my thoughts there.
We are all lonely inside our eyes I guess.
The barkeep picks up his tip and nods to my fading presence.
The taxi home gets lost between Reykjavik and Lahore,
we all arrive just in time to watch the day show up
on the 6 o’clock news.
Body counts and empty faces talking through mealy lips -
time for another drink.
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