by Felix Jung

Through the music and the smoke, it kisses
the ears. Someone orders whiskey, scotch,
a shot of something on the rocks. The serpent
must have made his pitch like this, slurring,
soft and uninhibited. The liquor does its work,
the words slip past my teeth: secret, swear,
confession. We slide around our stories, deep
in drink, and talk of women who are absent.

When I hear the hiss, I see the girl whose voice
(raspy, soft) makes me believe she is the kind
of singer that chain-smokes cigarettes. It is
the truth, it is the booze. I would have loved her
fiercely, had she only asked. But she never asks.

I rise to gather myself: one hat, one coat, one
scarf. I crack the door. The wind diminishes
all conversations into a sea of S's. I leave
this room of whisperers, discussing how the world
was made for pairs, for couples, each voice a sonic
postulate of how the singular is doomed.