NO ONE IS WATCHING US WATCH
The late-night drive-bys
Drunk in the backseat,
Your new boyfriend chauffeuring us
Fast food burgers in hand
As we coast, lights off,
By the ocean-front property
Of your crazy boss.
We duck down even though
The house is unlit and it’s 2 a.m.
No one is watching us watch.
I can smell the saltwater
In my bacon and BBQ sauce.
His wife was alive then
And his job intact
So we could make jokes
Swallow them down easily
With our side of fries.
We weren’t heartless,
Just not yet old
And full of heartbreak.
WE BOUGHT THE ONLY THING THEY WERE SELLING
Another time you served Big Macs on fine china
After swearing at your now-fiancé:
I want to go to effin Ups & Downs!
Take us to effin Ups & Downs!
He took you & me to the 24-hour
McDonalds drive-thru instead,
Where the only thing they were selling
Were Big Macs. We got the giggles,
Which lasted the whole ride back
To your apartment, where you insisted we not
Eat until the table was set.
You didn’t wake up til noon the next day.
I paged through magazines in your living room
As if I were waiting to see the dentist.
HAPPY HOUR WAS ANY HOUR
Remember two-day Black Dahlia hangovers? We winced
at the thought of them for months but never stopped
drinking. Happy hour was any hour not at work, any
hour drawing Venn diagrams on cocktail napkins,
circles defining Boys We Liked, the overlapping sphere
a tiny dot of shared interest. You preferred executive
smarm, I the penniless charmer; we agreed on one
Remember the night at Shay’s that guy showed me his
just-outta-jail papers? I was wearing shades, already
drunk. It was summer and when my hand crept up his
thigh you pulled me away, brought me home. I may
have cursed you in the car before throwing up out
the passenger-side window.
Remember when our old boss called us the office lushes
to his childhood friend? They asked where to find
beer in the Square. You were embarrassed but I recited:
Growlers at J. Harvard’s, 7-Eleven in the back freezers
(just ask the cashier), Cardullo’s for the upscale and trendy.
Monday morning the conference room recycling spilled
over with their empty cans. A half-empty jug was left
in the tiny fridge but we didn’t drink it.
Georgia Bellas has poems published in PANK, Bop Dead City, and Bitterzoet Magazine and work forthcoming in WhiskeyPaper and a print anthology by Medusa’s Laugh Press. She lives and writes in Somerville, Massachusetts, where she also makes art, films & jewelry in her spare time. You can follow her teddy bear, host of the new internet radio show “Mr. Bear’s Violet Hour Saloon,” on Twitter @MrBearStumpy.