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Too MuchTo Michael Leary's previous piece

Sex, in a Board Game Box

Eyes scratching
hands tearing, seeking

only a pretty face, slim body,
nothing more. Visually they play darts
and pin the tail in the donkey.
Each stepping in line to ask if I
am a trick, or treat. But I have a mind
as well, and my ass is not looking for a tail.

In the smoky air, the ebb of time is marked
by the passing of men beneath the exit sign, two
and even three of a kind. I still sit upon a worn barstool,
stroking my drink,
for someone who'll ask me something
other than my name, where I am from,
and how often do I come to this bar.

Without thim I will go home alone,
I've learned to fill my own hand.

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