THE DESIGNATED DRIVER. by John Gray

I'm drinking in a pathetic way
My fingers take up the task.
They drum on the table.
A friend jokes, "How's the Sarsaparilla?"
Actually, it's flat cola.
I'm the designated driver.
My thirst has been elected.
It must stay away from quenching
while my companions
double down on their happiness
with every sip of ale.

Tumblers of the stuff arrive,
froth enough to give birth
to Venus on the half-shell.
The beer glows melted gold.
The table rocks with filthy jokes.
Only I know they're not funny.
Jukebox blares and the singing commences.
Raucous bellows compete with booming beats.
Harmonics take a beating.
Melody tanks.
My ears are sorry
they were ever volunteered.
My buddies flirt. They roar.
They argue loudly but nothing comes to fisticuffs.
Mostly they're out of it.
Some collapsed across the table.
Others taking S curves to the men's room..
It's up to me to tell them
what a good time they're having.
Eventually, the bar closes
and my amateur, unpaid taxi
drops them at their house, one by one.
When I'm done,
I really do need a drink.
Out comes the whiskey bottle.
Click goes the glass.
I'm the designated driver
who drives himself to drink.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Visions International.