Little Plastic Cup

Discussing the pitfalls of alcohol from the edge of a bar stool

You nod and agree, emphatically, and sip from the drink glued in your hand

My island, my friend, I meet you again, years down the street, I wonder if you might have changed

Or perhaps me, if I might have loosened up

But neither, we stay the same

You with that little plastic cup and straw, me gauging the gap between our lives, too far to stride

And these things don’t change, they don’t look at themselves and suddenly snap out of it. They morph, they drag, they wake up thirty years later to a red nose and beer belly, but still smiling, laughing loud and ragged…as long as that cocktail cup can come along.

My island, my friend, I had hopes for you, for me, that we could bridge this someday.

Bitter, soaked in lemon, sour-faced on a bar stool. Rum runs the lines of plans and bonds and time. And my world, sharp and defined, cannot keep track. I hope for more, unrealistically.

My friend, I feel let down. Because I crave so much more. More consistency, dependability, creativity in our pleasure, depth in our leisure.

But you and that plastic cup cannot keep still, living the loop of adventure and thrill.

Liquor splashes from wet-lipped laughter.

And I, with my tongue dry, hang heavy orders, of something more for my little glass cup.

I cannot keep up.

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