the bent bar

In dreams, I’m where the music plays. I’m listening to the laughter, like it’s in another room. My drink is dark, bitter and oaky tasting and the peanuts taste like soap. There aren’t any napkins. Others are lines of light and shadow. I feel an anxiety that I gnaw on, like a dog works a bone. My dream’s conflating memories. Suddenly Lisa’s there, she comes up from behind, “Aww, your tag is sticking out,” she says, but before she can fix it, I hear tower bells. It’s my alarm. . . Webster: Conflate: “to blend or bring together.”