first tuesday of march
wasted paper,
ambiguous time.
words about drinking, love
and the south.
instruments i can’t play,
people i can’t start a conversation with.
enjoyable, loud,
buzzing in a night’s end.
an empty space
between sets,
between days,
between weekends without
alarm clocks.
but not without worries.
it’s ironic, in a way,
to listen to the blues –
to hear all about loneliness –
in a setting where everyone
is having fun.
where no one else
appears to be alone.
so i keep writing,
waiting for more music
from my newfound spot
at the bar.
i face outward,
as if to meekly suggest
that despite my silence, paper and pen,
i’m not antisocial.
