Lori falls apart in the privacy of her own home.
She reassembles herself before going out.
Sometimes a piece or two gets kicked under the sofa.
She dislikes the word Bamboozled
because in her mind it ties all her losses and failures
to the drinks she likes to imbibe.
Lori drops a quarter in the juke box
only to learn the juke box requires three more
before it plays a song by Blue Oyster Cult.
She spies a boy wearing a Grim Reaper t-shirt
with the words Got Death printed
on the curved blade of the upheld scythe.
Lori wonders if the boy is the grim reaper in disguise
with appointments to keep in the pub
or if he was too underdressed to be allowed entrance to the afterlife.
From her barstool perch, she watches the boy in reverse
in the barroom mirror with the notion of a one night stand
but notices his commitment to the thinnest girls.
Lori right swipes through social media
in search of girls entering how much Friday night devalued them
though most of those entries are not made until Saturday.
She copies and pastes the response
You are worth more than you think
anonymously, a thousand times before last call.
Lori leaves while she can navigate the sinkholes
as her tequila tunnel vision only sees the street lamps
that light the way home.
copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 