The Weekend Before Valentine's Day [January 8th | 37/365]

I dropped by Max's with a handle of whisky,
hugged the man, filled a glass, and squirmed
past the atrium, stuffed with ballcaps
and innuendo, to flop on the empty couch,
ignoring the poker game, trying to listen
to the muted television, which showed
a classy old party where someone pulls a gun

and then the host grabs him and slams
the piano lid over his neck as the lady
whom he'd been groping stands there, arched back,
hands over mouth, then it cuts to them cleaning up.
The scene takes a second to shake from my veins,
but then my mind drifts, in step with the flirts
around the doorway. I've been thinking of England

a lot lately--how they speak the same language,
but to us it just doesn't always sound right.