6

Somewhere between the fourth shot of Jager
and a beer, everything disappears
down the hole of a yellow straw. One day,
barriers will fall like Berlin in the 80s and
I'll understand day drinking. How sitting
at 4 pm sipping means productivity.

While watching ice clink, you complain
about unripe blueberries, the cold
and a remnant of a summer yet to come.
My eyes squint tighter. The woman
with the tray says numbers I want to read,
repeats herself again and again. Almost angry.

But who's angry here? The woman or me,
the one unable to pull a series of letters,
jumbled together like monkeys in a barrel.
Somehow, I think when I pull away
from the bar at the end of the night,
day drinking is the least of my problems.