The bell rings
so someone bought the bar a round.
You look up
to politely acknowledge
the kind stranger.
You have another shot
You go with J.D.
The creative juices
are flowing
and you feel inspired
Great—or at least adequate—poetry
might be committed today
but then you realize
there’s no ink left
in the pen you have
You don’t want to draw attention
by requesting a pen.
It’s even worse than cock block
when you feel a poem coming on
and lack the means
to commit it to paper.
The locals in the bar
are chatting up a storm
and craziness is abundant.
Thru the chatter
I find out
that moose barbacoa
is actually a thing here
I want to be writing
as the despair
of the locals
is begging to be exploited
On the radio,
I hear Boy George singing,
“Do you really want to hurt me?”
Apparently,
the answer is yes.
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1110364
bathroomgraffiti 