Waiting to Be Shot in the Back
       

Okay stranger, plug a dollar

in the jukebox,

some forgotten country

twang. Like cigarette smoke

staining my eyes, watch me

rise like a moth

to the ceiling fan.

This dive of don't

speak so often

and old men counting

dimes for a drink.

Is there another joint

as sad as this one?

A tall glass

of whiskey

emptied

like a long swim.

And on the bar top, left like a tip

on a bloody napkin,

someone's tooth—

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Copyright © 2014 Sean Thomas Dougherty All rights reserved
from All You Ask for Is Longing
BOA Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission