Spiraling Through

A woman just fell off the bar. Her heels are as high as her boyfriend will be by midnight. I'm sure of that.
A man in the corner smiles, a row of multi-million dental bills glistens against an imperfect tan. I'll take my jacket off. It's just one drink.

I think I love New York more when it disappoints me. It's like most things. For every person's bad day someone is getting a raise. For every person's overweight anxiety, two men on street corners pause to whistle. For every friend I've lost, man I shouldn't have slept with, and apartment I couldn't afford, there's a poster-plastered bar with two dollar coronas and men asking for my number.

I feel their eyes on me, pleading Roxanne, and I remember how easily I can make someone happy.

Buy her a drink first... she's more expensive than that.

I watch a scholarly flirtation evolve and wonder if they'll bump monocles. I'm sure they're talking about global warming and volcanic ash. I'm sure they aren't talking about the blood libel in Switzerland, or Iran, or accountability, or anything of any real significance. They succumb to obstinant affiliation and don't realize that the tables have turned. They don't realize that the five old timers who play 60s B sides on guitar, bass, and milk crate in Washington Square Park aren't happy with they way we, the people, have taken over things.

The bar can't decide between reggae and salsa. I think I'm falling. Did you know you can wear a suit and still inhale?

My lips are moving but I know I've been dubbed.