Chicken 'n Beer

Television on sports channels, no sound.
Staccato clack of balls into pockets;
pool sticks in the rack.
Neon promo lights flicker in
and out like ominous stars.

Soon the scales will tip again.
I will double check the numbers.
Soon the scales will empty into glass;
I will emerge, all the dumber.
Consuming; perfuming.

Is it Joe the Plumber or
the promise of perpetual summer
that shirks my to-do lists and stunts
my growth as potential up-and-comer?

Boy howdy, I tell ya.
It’s no wonder that my brain insists
on shackles round ankles and wrists.
Upward mobility, in this bar, does not exist.

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