Fifth of July, and I just barely watched fireworks
for all the blue eyes collared into working.
Begging free beer close to shift end.
Bragging clean bathrooms.
Asking the boy who brought me his plans for his evening.
And it is. His. He has that placid right. Not to answer.
Reserve. Just became manager.
Over these early twenty girls.
And they like the game.
They like his name.
Drunk and sliced thumbs prying off pop tops while driving.
Drunk. And taking tin metal shots of tequila.
Blaming weed for the spins.
Selected one from multitudes of sins.
Of choice. One of multitudes.
Not making the best of this or any other situation.
Not living to make the best. Just better.
Decisions so convoluted and tipsy
that’s hardly the word for them.