i've told you before, bars aren't for me
by Mia Poirier
I didn’t like the laughter or the music,
the way everything felt and sounded
like an echo from far away. I liked you,
with your purple rain jacket
and your bike helmet under your arm,
like you were ready to bolt any second.
I didn’t want to go out for a drink,
but that purple rain jacket looked so
dorky on your lanky, stretched out arms,
you didn’t make me say yes.
You asked the waitress for straws
to blow bubbles in your beer, like
a 4 year old at Chuck E. Cheese’s.
You littered the table with
tiny salt and pepper packets,
said I had to “spice up my life”
and laughed at your inability to pun.
I drank a glass of Tabasco sauce
to see if its sting could recreate
the taste of a cold beer I didn’t want
at a bar where I never asked to go.