Happy Hour

sitting here in the lobby bar of some
upscale hotel, there’s ten pretty women
drinking vodka drinks, variations on
the vodka martini, and they’re all dressed
for business, but the only business I
have in mind is the oldest profession,
though I’m no john and not looking to pay
for what I’ve always gotten for free.          now there’s
nine pretty women and I’m two sheets to the
wind   .   .   .   and it’s down to six pretty women,
and I’m drowned in a river of whiskey
gazing like a tourist atgizalike
I can’t take it in, but now she’s petting
my thigh, and pretty, and it’s time to go home.

David M Pitchford
15 Nov 2011

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