Purple Shearling

Regulars hunker on their stools
with glassy stares and red wine
nursing cigarette burns and bloodshot
contacts on eyes that don’t know sleep.

The hula begins in the corner.
A woman shifts on her perch holding
ice on the man’s hand smoking from
her other, someone passes around
corn chips and guacamole and a half-eaten
pizza no one wants anymore.

The bartender pours her potions in
high layers for honeymooners.
An old couple giggles. The man
with the cigarette burn slowly dances
his hands in the air:
a smokey swan singing softly to himself.

Warm rain is driving down now
in salty sheets, yet somehow
torches flame along sideways
jabbing the wind
flickering our thirst.