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” Happy Hour” by Michael Tidwell

Endless colors reflect in the glass
Thru the shadows
Behind the barman’s shoulder,
Which moves with the rhythm
Of glasses being dried.

On the left speaks a man
With a loud tie and voice,
Of big deals made and
Small opponents beaten,
Impressing his son’s date
But boring his wife.

On the next stool over
Is a homely man,
Tall even when sitting.
He writes on a napkin
Of something sad or lost,
For one can read the words on his face.

At the end of the bar top
Drink three young men,
Smiling fraudulently at
The women who are not there.

Filling the candled tables
Sit a living spectrum
Of dreams, fear, desire;
Of every emotion of Life,
Submerged, hidden,
To be played in the game
As needed.

At the center, drink empty,
One man observes, alone.
Standing, he pays the tab,
Then runs to the car
In the rain.

Michael Tidwell