I was eating fish and chips
in a not-very-Irish pub
after casting my ballot
against the apocalypse.
The first sip of beer sent
me time-traveling back to
a college-town dive bar
at the dawn of the age
of the Material Girl,
and a passing server
rang a bell that conjured
the specter of a friend
with whom I had an
accidental falling-out
over the embarrassment
of our mutual addictions:
men and drink and that
certain Southern sense
of slow decay toward
inevitable doom that
haunts the twisted halls
of minds that can never
make the thinking stop.
I don’t know which way
she went—the server,
my friend, or Memory
herself—or what drew
us together and pulled
us apart, or what
anything means.
So I just finished
my fish and chips,
and someone brought
me the check.
Copyright 2016
T. Allen Culpepper
