Happy Hour
Daniel R. Foster

The night is younger than either of us,
I tell him, and its future’s twice as bright.
So go for her, I say, drink her down—
This beauty’s all you need in a perfect fifth
Of Stoli: Transparent, Ice-Cold, Tasteless.
But he won’t have any of it; sorry bastard
Just limps his way back to a wobbly stool
To douse his blue-balls with another Dewars’,
Tells me ‘blah blah wife and blah fucking kids’
—Who gives a shit? Missus and the runts will
Still be there in the morning I tell him,
And with any luck, that beauty won’t. Wake up late
Enough and she’ll be gone, no continental breakfast
Or awkward sidelong glances across someone
Else’s sheets. Come on (I slap him on the shoulder),
We’re just machines that turn booze into piss,
Nothing else to it. ‘Not like I could anyway’
He says to his empty glass. Bullshit. Courage
Is overrated, all you need is a shot of Jack
And a lack of dignity (he doesn’t laugh).
Look, I don’t care about the coffee spoons
You measure out life with, or the flickering
Moment of your greatness. Whatever doesn’t
Kill you makes you drunker; life hands you lemons—
‘And I squeeze them into my eyes and cry for days.’
Oh for Chrissakes, then make it a whiskey sour,
‘I can’t stand the taste’ (he shakes his head).
Too bad (I sigh), though better me than you.
I straighten my tie and head off to that beauty
And call back to the poor bastard:
If alcohol tasted good…we’d all be dead.