BARHOPPING
By Al Baron
One had nothing wrong with it,
except for being number one.
Two had brighter lights,
suggesting opportunities that
always failed to slither
from primordial glasses.
At three I bumped into a man
with whom I’d shared the
cruelest days on earth.
We tasted the cement again
and didn’t talk,
just went to four in search of
those who were to blame.
But we found circle-dancing.
I was handed shots and
toasted velvet paintings
of an octopus
and slapped the dance floor tiles.
Five was three, six was two.
It’s not my fault
they all had entrances and exits.
Al Baron lives in Washington State, where he works as an immigration lawyer. He is a graduate of the Book Project at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, and his poetry has previously appeared in Killer Nashville Magazine.
