How to Write a Bar Story

by Susan Konz

Don’t judge. Swim around other people’s
murky water. Let yourself yellow fade and crisp with them,
 
come down. I mean, go up first, way up because it hurts
to say everything is so precious because, fuck, everything
 
is so precious it pops live wire snaps at your tips; it frays
your hair singes golden spheres cycling in champagne
 
flutes, you down there, it hurts. Listen, come down,
look at this guy, three divorces a Stoli rocks moth
 
holes in his cardigan or her packing herself in ice with a book
doesn’t need anyone – have a drink, have a few, roll that bite
 
around, learn how why not tastes. Let him call you
sweetheart, that’s your knee under his hand. Let him slide
 
up your thigh high enough under the dirty oak lip of the bar
you don’t feel it. This is your body, keep saying that. Develop
 
a taste for ryes. Tell the truth then laugh. Let him
take you home and when he’s asleep
 
in the blue-blood dark pad through his house
barefoot, touch his things softly. They exist.
 
His maid will come remove your traces after, I tried
to fuck her too he’ll tell you. Know what you are. All these
 
lives. A jade jewelry box on the nightstand,
a papier-mâché cube I love my daddy, a bent corkscrew,
 
a gold watch, broken clasp. Hold them quick when no
one sees, you’re nobody. Just listen, it happened, it’s real, you
 
remember, it hurts, you’re nobody,
pour thirteen shots, it’s important, let it all go
 
fuzzy, you’re nobody – hold everything
you see, palm it, it’s there, it’s precious,
 
it’s so fucking precious somewhere between novelty
and import like he says that Sunday morning coming
 
in it’s going to be a long day, Sue, crack
an egg in my beer.