Saturdayed again at the Good Luck Bar
where dulled lipstick stains the beveled edges
of cocktail glasses and my worn-out lips,
and wine rings seep into table tops, stain
old wood the way liquor stains our livers,
as we storm the bar for one more at last
call with bills advanced unsteadily like
heavy swords wielded by tired soldiers,
and the conversation turns to polish
on one woman’s toenails: Metallic Vamp,
not like blood but like the night sky dying
when the sun unburies itself at dawn,
as the booze keeps on flowing in our blood
and one of us falls asleep or in love.