Beer-soaked bellies tend to bash my chair
as they rumble past, making me jolt,
drink spilling, temper flaring.
Gazing at my caramel concoction,
a tooth-fairy blend of Coke
and sickly-sweet, candy-cane Malibu.
“I’d rather just have the Coke,” I say
And the whole room chuckles
because a spiritless double or gin-less tonic
is just crazy, apparently.
talking to my pillow. 