Saturday, May 26, 2018
Even When He Doesn’t Say Anything, He Talks Too Much By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
You can sit in a bar forever if you like,
and you are no closer to anything.
Salted peanuts so you drink.
You have walked out of one hustle
and sat down to another.
Not that you need any coaxing.
And you grow philosophical
as any good drunk,
whisper something to the empty
stool beside you like:
“life is a series of small victories
and large defeats.”
Chuckling at your own spittoon wisdom.
As though Buddha explains the belly.
“There’s a new wave licker
with ten tonne breath,”
you point to the door
that looks like it would be
hard to open.
The young barkeep eyeing you
the entire time.
A cursory rag over dirty mugs.
Even when he doesn’t say anything,
he talks too much.
You decide he is working for the government
because that is what all the
But it’s not safe to leave,
so you sit slumped over
Head in chest.
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