Poem: Another True Story

The bar starts to feel familiar, mind you, any good bar does after the first drink’s been poured, then, kinda cosy when a second’s been ordered. On to your third, memory starts to get ignored.

I perched on the last stool, lined up next to the guy who’d had a shit day at work, made some fuck-ups, or so he said. Two girls dressed as women; and the off-duty…