Breathing In The Cold

I am drinking at a bar getting scoffed
at for asking too many questions.
The T.V. in the corner has grease
staining its plastic rim, no doubt
put there by an angry patron who
threw a sandwich due to the results of
a football game. The bartender is
a short woman in her forties with
thinning dark hair wearing a
t-shirt she got at a concert in the
seventies. She cut the sleeves off
and increased the cleavage so that
everyone could see the tattoo she
had of, Goofy, looking puzzled at
a pocket watch.
I order another drink using the
three dollars, with torn corners, I still
had in my faded wallet.
She brings it to me, and asks
if I need anything else.
I say no and go back to mumbling
what no one wants to hear.
I walk home later that night
stumbling slightly, and take a
break by looking up while leaning
against a grimy blue mailbox.
I was hoping I would feel something
gazing back at me, but I didn’t. It was more like just looking at myself.
The cold curb burned the side of my face, and
my breath became like dark smoke from a gun.

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