Hotel Bars

I like to drink in hotel bars.
I relish in the lack of drinking with any regulars.
Absolved of needing to ask,
or hear about kids,
or wives,
or vacation plans.

The talk, if any,
revolves around where we’re from,
what we do for a living,
or what circumstance brought us
to the hotel.

I lie every chance afforded to me.
I tell people I’m from Detroit,
or Toledo,
it doesn’t matter.

I tell them I sell stocks
or used cars,
or whatever.

Whatever I need to say,
I say.
Whatever they need to hear,
I say that too.

I don’t normally talk to women in the bars.
I don’t want to pretend any more than I have to.
I don’t want to pretend I care,
when they talk about
their husbands,
Their children,
or how bored they are.

I really don’t care.
I’m just here to drink,
and be insignificant.



Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry

3 responses to “Hotel Bars

  1. The gloomy tone makes me wonder if the narrator is truly happy in the hotel bar environment or if he’s escaping something – which is probably why he takes on a different persona at each bar. Wonderful and mysterious. Very well written!

  2. I just never wanted to go home, to what waited there inside the walls of that suffocating apartment.

    So I’d look for strangers that I could play pretend with. Not lies, as such, more a drunk-confidence that has the added effect of making you think life’s good. Quickly, it eroded to the realisation that life’s good now, with that warm whiskey in my belly, but tomorrow is just another today, only with a hangover to deal with and explanations to get through.

    And that’s when I’d get bored of the strangers, too. Just as I was bored with what was at home.

    That’s when I knew it was time to move on to the next bar.

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