Swaying softly in the music
the drunk takes a bow
wrapping around his words
with slurred annoyance.
Seeking to end it all,
he continues to babble
incoherently
about life and possibilities.
The woman
across the table ridicules:
the poor man’s sorrow is another
man’s laughter.
We are stuck in time
which doesn’t exist.
He is stuck in a moment
captured by Vodka
hoping that someone will
take him home and let
him pour out his misery.
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