By the end of the week, rising late on the first day off
I have forgotten how to write or why.
What's the purpose?  Got to do something with your life, chap.
Three women, old friends of mine
come in right as I struggle with a barrage of cocktail orders
for the waitress's tables,
plant themselves and tell me they need
"something strong."
And here come two more people, to join the guy
I've known for twenty years
who's just come in.

"What fairy tale do they remind you of,"
the waitress asks me, aside,
as wipe the glasses clean from the washer
and I make two more cocktails
and put in a food order.
They discuss how hard it is
to find guys in this town.
"You're lucky.  It's three to one for you," one says.
"I don't know about that.
That's not the experience I'm having,"
I reply, and go about my business,
more removed, professional,
and terse with my words
as I age.
"You're bored with us."
The talk is heavy, and loud
at the end of the week.

The lives of others,
they seem so real,
a weakness of mine
to feel obliged to humor them.
They puff up and put on shows
with little meaning.