Dive Bar

A steady hand lifts the glass mug of the next regret. He twirled me on the dance floor, left stained by blue collar shoeprints and leaky pints. In the corner, the referee refuses to let there be a fair fight, favoring the heavyweight champion of the pool table and fatty knuckles sever the ego of a cheeky, toothy grin. The coins jumping in his pocket show off their boogie moves, and we dance, and dance and dance until the sun returns sanity to the humble joint. At the dive bar on Westchester Street, the rules are blurred, and happiness is disguised.