The barfly that I love
is making out with some balding white dude
with a wallet chain.
Two suitors
have been circling her for hours,
each more hipster than the other.
I think the wallet chain was able to supply more drinks
so its owner
is sloppily grasping
the owner of my lonely heart.

From tables away
through my own brand of beer goggles
I see a look in her eyes
I can remember
from when we’d first met
and the world seemed new
and life was more like a buffet
and less like closing time
at an under-stocked arcade
when you hold
only a handful of tickets.

She’ll drink her fill of him,
my barfly will,
as she has, no doubt,
many before us
and will many afterwards.
She is seeking a taste of something,
I suspect,
that she has not yet found.

I wish I could have satisfied her.
I wish I knew
what flavor she was seeking
so I could supply it
and give her the drink that she wants.
I wish I could look away
from her
and the hipster in her arms
but I can’t
so instead
maybe I’ll get out my billfold
and get blind drunk.