Happy Hour Sonnet

My whisky sour leaves rings on the old bar’s
oak. Absent­mind­ed in this dusty place
two locals argue over noth­ing. Wars
of log­ic drown in weak beer with­out grace

or urg­ing. Drunk­en mus­cle insults — brace
for impact — bare­fist­ed oppo­nents glare.
The leer­ing bar­tender will get a taste
anoth­er run­away led to his lair.

She fol­lows, dead already, behind where
old Sloe Gin pumps lewd off-time play­er tunes.
An ice cube set­tles in my glass. I stare
at the rings, fad­ed inter­sect­ing new.

This song and this tale has more than two sides,
men blind to this form rad­i­cal divides.