or, do we even know what we want

A poem.

they exit the saloon doors
one after another like a
fashion show,
or open functions on an AS400

or ants, out of woodwork
marching vertically along split trenches of bark,
their petite outlines shadowed by the street lights
of the car park.
i don’t know how much time has passed.
i wasn’t keeping track, and
i’m almost hooting ash.


when do i have to go back?
so it looks more like i’m smoking

and less like a jackass?
it’s a great excuse, to be so old-fashioned
you’d rather you lived in an era you were able
than every five minutes having to excuse yourself
from the table.