by Sarah Rohrs
Just some lips sounding in there. Flattened bottoms sinking into warm leather creak and ooze. Bodies and butts with no names. Some kind of recovery. I saw the room at the corner. No body knew what I held in my right arm, inside a black coat, the same one I wore when I wrecked the car. Packing wood, sliding wheels, bristling ambient air. Maybe flaying, too, if I remembered.
Cold window shadows at night. Flat light from the streetlight that never meant to be a mess. Wine spilling. A wheezing chest hole covered with a dirty coat flap. She raises a hand up and a few fingers ripple. Her mouth inches up into a kind of grin. "Yes, a full one, please."
Fingers encircle around whatever containment can measure. Who cares if it's a quart, an ounce, a tablespoon, or gallon pouring? Go on. Hold it with two hands. Bourbon, wine, whiskey or beer bottles ignite these jokers who never knew you or your body. "Hey, isn't it something how you can close your fist around a wine glass?"
With parted lips, my tongue tastes dead flowers and wheat. I tilt the bouquet and pour in wine gone warm. Swish twice before swallowing. Knead belly into bread. Beckon those legs in dirty pants. Don't let them take away my stony hedge.
Enter the back room to pinch at silence. Bite past the watery edge.
He sees her just as a cop drives by. The bartender is snorting up in the john. She gathers her black raincoat around her face and shakes her long hair. He thinks: Could she be cute? She picks up the glass and looks out the window. He walks over and when his coat sleeve brushes hers, lifts his hand and drains his beer in one gulp. She watches his bobbing Adam’s apple. Both glasses are empty. His dog barks from his LeMans parked outside.
Sarah Rohrs is a former newspaper reporter and drunk, who now teaches children to read and write while listening closely to their endless chatter. She takes photos, loves trees, pines for other times and places, and has written poetry for eons.