Happy Hour

The bowl is empty
No longer filled
Four kinds of chips
Nothing but crumbs

Guacamole with spice
A hint of adventure
Is now all consumed
Along with the laughter

Guitar music plays
Yet no real strings
Save for the bus boy
Who changes CDs

People chatter at the bar
Occupy the soft leather
That coaxes them in
at Happy Hour prices

A man with a smart phone
Awaits a pretty girl
To occupy his time
With sweet perfume

The music plays on
Pretends to be Spain
Portugal or France
Some other place

Ceviche arrives
As a trainee
Sets down a plate
On the covered table

A concierge eyes
The tiny shrimp
To assure they show
Their finest face

The bar is occupied
Lonely souls looking
For conversation and
A hint of worthiness

–Victoria Emmons © 2014

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s