The pours look short, my need many-fingered.
Don’t worry. You can always order another,
I whisper, my own enabler, but all measures
prove insufficient to the thirst that conjures
them. Coming here, I saw two redtails copulating over
the freeway, a flutter of feathers on a pole, surely
they didn’t fret as they took again to air—
that a failing of marrow-boned creatures.
Twice today, I stumbled upon the same Millner
sonnet—IKEA, B & D, the narrator
younger than I, so presumably hipper.
Is that what fame requires—calling pain pleasure?
I close my tab, tip the bartender,
and, exiting, hug my misery tighter.
