By Zak Sheppard
My beer is getting warm.
Five dollars wasted on keg
tapped piss. The floor is
sticking to my shoes more
than usual. The fan is blowing
something putrid in my nose.
What a tainted paradise.
My vision’s blurred, but the reality
is clear. I’ve been here before.
I hear the band play Creed or
3 Doors Down; more songs that
I hate. I step out and light
a smoke under the moon’s glow.
I’ll be back tomorrow night.
