This poem first appeared here in The Aroostook Review.
Photograph in a Bar, Washington, D.C.
The guy in the foreground is Quint
my friend tells me
pointing to and holding
a photograph at arm’s length.
Behind Quint, on the table
two Bud Light bottles sweat
in sticky puddles, framing
a fluorescent margarita.
In Quint’s hand: a cell phone.
There’s a purse on the table
no girl to claim it
just an empty barstool
and silhouettes
of nameless faces
filling dark spaces.
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