amaretto sour man

i longed for some maraschino sweet
alcoholic luxury; a cherry, popped
champagne corks rolling, lost
minds indulging themselves
in the sting of thirty percent
alcohol by volume – not too much
drinking, just a little, enough
to erase the fraying emotions
also streaming through my blood
stream (we screamed, we slept
with monsters, we slugged
down shooters and each other):
some bartender in a smoke-
filled tavern will find me
at a stool, singing joys and miseries,
singing your song, singing again,
some melancholy melody of lust
or mistrust, and in the gray light,
he'll hang down his head, sad
face plastered on; he'll be worn
out, worn down, worn clean
through, and the only remainder
or reminder he'll have left of me
will be the drops of pinot grigio
stuck syrupy to the bar (i'm always
gone when he opens his eyes).