I never was much for the bar scene. I never found the “Cheers” I was looking for. This is my attempt at capturing the atmosphere of all the Dew Drop Inns I have seen in towns across the midwest and central region in a poem about a relationship gone bad. Have a drink and enjoy the live music at the Bear Trap.
Staring into the blur
of ice cubes in scotch
as they twirl,
round and round
by the twist of my wrist,
searching for answers
in the swirl of amber.
Are you happy?
Some wannabe band
is murdering “Turn the Page”,
but that doesn’t stop
a cute little dark-haired girl,
bored with my
lack of conversation,
from showing the singer
how much she has had to drink,
from showing us all
how proud she is of her breasts.
A chorus of hoots and whistles
rises in appreciation
from the mostly male crowd.
I will admit
to looking up from my glass,
to staring for just a moment.
Are you really happy?
You are probably
still reading on the sofa,
turning each page
as the flannel cuff of your pajamas
scrapes across the paper.
Or maybe you have
moved to the den,
pointing and clicking,
another game of solitaire.
I am not.
Meanwhile,
the barkeep
says this one is my last.
The cops have come to take away
the dark-haired girl
and a guy with a bloody nose,
too drunk to remember
the lesson she taught him,
or even the peepshow
that inspired his hands.
The band has moved on
to lesser songs,
disguising their lack of talent
in unfamiliar tunes,
in our undiscerning stupor.
Are you happy?
This glass,
as all the others,
holds no real answers,
just cubes now stilled at the bottom
and melting into the night,
telling me it is time
to find my way out the door.
I am not.
I am not.
| Copyright © 2021 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He also dabbles in short fiction and may be onto some ideas for a novel. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. In September 2020, he started the blog “Disturbing the Pond.” |
Interesting the different conversations going on--a nice touch that keeps the reader reading. Also: a list of expensive and expansive lessons for those who seek happiness where happiness obviously is not.
ReplyDeleteI too despaired of the bar scene a few years after school. The meat markets held less appeal but I stayed on for the $1 drinks. Until one night, when I saw a stunning little lady across the bar, staring at me. I'd seen her turn down a few guys for disco dance numbers (disco s*cked then and s*cks now). She kept staring. I stared right back, and liked everything I saw. I waited for a slow song, asked her to dance, and we did. Her name is Cindy. We were married July 19 1980. We joke that you have to be careful who you pick up in a bar; you never know how long you'll be stuck with them!
ReplyDeleteThanks Maik, for a trip down memory lane. Being in the bar, full of cynicism and despair, is like buying a lottery ticket that will at least get you drunk. It doesn't mean a guy or gal can't walk out with the live of their life.
A lot of this poem drew from the decline of my first marriage. It wasn’t bars that I went to, but I kept myself socially away from the house a lot because it became too uncomfortable. It was no longer a home. I think a lot of people are just searching for a place they can be comfortable and as Michael said, the bar seen really doesn’t hold the market on happiness.
ReplyDelete