Hollow

We have
a corner table,
two bottles
to ourselves,
and a pile of
curbside quarters
to feed
the jukebox.

The beginning
is my favorite part,
when we
are all pretending
to be
whatever it is
we think
is romantic.

Our eyes blur,
and I say
something like,
“I never
do things like this,”
when really

I come here
every night,
racking balls
at the pool tables
just so you’ll
watch me bend over.

So you’ll
order a beer
and tip it my way,
“let’s do
this again sometime.”
And I
always do.

I need a good flood.
A real
end-of-the-world,
wrath-of-the-gods
obliteration –
to wash me
out of this
gutter.

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One thought on “Hollow

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