Last Call

The bartender pours the last flicker

of the open neon sign

into a row of shot glasses.

The crowd swirls the liquid

around like a parting bouquet

and each sip is a fanged kiss

biting their lips.

By the end of the night,

they will trade in names

for strangers’ jackets

and sweat scribbled numbers

on inside wrists.

Last call becomes selfies of girls

with running mascara and smearing lipstick.

Each snap fills the liquor bottles

lining the back wall.

The crowd fumbles through retro hits,

Saturday nights, and quick hook-ups.

They wear desperation, sweat and lust

like bones.

They clatter and clang out names,

and the crowd listens

to each sound; hoping

it is the sighing of someone’s name.


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