Lisa Gordon

Blast of jukebox plays decibel dervish
to your still stature, filled full
of vodka & sound that someone not here
perhaps thought of as more than a barrier
to actually having to listen or talk
to anyone behind/beside/beyond himself.

Or avoided thinking,
like you mean to be doing now,
in this reddish light looking down
into icy glass
gamely half full.

The man one stool over drinks beer.
You feel it when he turns his head
curiously toward you. You manage not
to look up.

Filled full, you think,
equals fulfilled.

The thought falls short
of spawning anything more.

Now, for as long as the music blares,
it will be perfectly safe for you
to look up or not.

Poem © Lisa Gordon 2004-2005.
All rights reserved.