Bar Insomnia

Over and above the perennial

roar-hum of the air conditioning,

and the unpredictable plasticky

dropping of toys by the children who live upstairs,

my thoughts and worries charge,

like thirsty punters in a rowdy bar,

jostling their orders to the fore.

These things don’t matter,

you’ll see tomorrow,

says Matthew McConaughey,

who at first seems like a friend.

He saunters in, rain dripping

cinematically from the wavy rim of his Stetson,

easily orders a drink and hikes spurred boots heavily onto a table

to watch the fun and games.

I’ll be here all night!

Can someone please change the god awful music?

But the song’s set in stone.

It’s a virus I think I've picked up at the gym.

We found love in a hopeless place,

a hopeless place…

Each time it ends I put it back on,

in defiance of the flying empties and voices

that holler for me not to.

Play that one more time,

I will shoot you square between your eyes,

dares McConaughey with a tricky hand in his duster coat,

momentarily hushing the room.

But I call his bluff and he lets it go,

grinning coolly under his dipping hat.

The verses play out like a scratched CD,

skipping over words I don’t know.

I kick the sheets off,

and so goes the night.