|
| |
Outside The Empty Mug
the night’s wildlife stampedes through the crosswalk.
penguins dressed in short black skirts and white tops.
an Irish River Dance of black boots cross by the lights
startle the onlookers from the comfort of their cars.
hard to distinguish any individual from the rest.
a uniform that ignites a father’s spark,
not the kind they ignite on the bar-walk.
thinking about my own daughter and
what I didn’t know back when.
cavalier cheeks peek out from the high hem-lines,
a playful peek-a-boo to see if anyone is looking.
hands tug the hem to control the will of their wiggle,
drawing scorn from those who are wearing their envy.
an atmosphere of nonchalant breathing angst.
mingle and mix with the alcohol and club odours.
the club’s corral is sliced into quiet ‘me too’ zones
one that hovers and the other confines
small talk shrinks to texting while waiting.
girls wonder—why no one approaches.
guys fear—of their prophetic rejection,
leaving a gap big enough for superficial indifference.
conversations are meant to be seen,
a language of the mere mundane,
spoken with auto-laughter and random head bobs.
words fall, stripped of meaning—
as echoes of their intent, bounce off.
the girls too drunk to stand, fold in half becoming
wall props that buckled under the burden of isolation.
an entourage of concern tries to conceal—
what an unattended skirt might reveal.
the still standing, fidget with cell phones,
text club memes while waiting for an uber.
glad my daughter’s married and a home body.
most patrons go home alone.
a few hook up until the dawn of reality shares their bed.
Copyright ©
Casey Hart
|
|