Still Here


A Wednesday night
the sky's spitting snow,
I'm drinking beer,
upholstered with a dusty 
brown plaid disappointment.

The fingerprints and lipstick 
on my glass,
the hissing of the CO2, 
the perfume of the woman next to me,
the sweat in my hand 
curling about this pen, 
the ring and snap 
of the cash register, 
the light glowing 
off the wood of the bar, 
the dirt 
under my fingernails, 
it all implies 
something.

The taste of tobacco 
and too-sweet beer, 
I must
be
here.

1/26/00