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.