Paul sat stoically
on the unbalanced
wooden stool in the
creaky wooden bar,
weighing blue cheese
vs Hot Momma sauce
on a random Monday
night. Where Skynyrd
blared about big wheels
that kept on turning,
where skittish TVs
hiccupped in and out
with obscure reruns.
Where peanut shells
crackled on the floor
as the bartender
wiped a sticky hand
across a grizzled chin
and plodded off to
refill the toilet paper.
Where Paul watched,
empty and envious,
as a stringy couple
all arms and legs
entwined with each
other in between
giggles and shots.
Where Paul thought
of the kids he didn’t
have, of the house
he never bought,
of stories he never
wrote. Of the pills,
all the pills, waiting
at home. And of
the decisions, those
decisions he would
make and no one
would know. Even
those, especially
those, on a random
Monday night.
