we were in a bar on elmwood avenue

& i was drunk.

it was the middle of the afternoon,

on a sunday, in the summer;

august, i think.

you were talking about bukowski

or kerouac, & how their women

could never be in the great writers’ club,

& i just couldn’t help myself.

i don’t know what started it,

hank’s vanishing self, or jack’s

blood-drunk death

but the tears hit me solid &

i couldn’t stop

not for the frat boys watching baseball at the bar

or for the bartender in tight jeans with a grooved cameltoe

not for the diners and their pleasant meals

or the people hand in hand on the street

not even for you.

i was no good to anyone &

dear i really think something changed

for me that day, some kind of loss set in,

the kind we always just mused about,

& has left me hollow ever since.

because lately i’ve been so lonely,

i just dont know how to say it, except

to write this poem & tell you this:

i’m really sorry i got drunk & cried

on such a nice day.