This bar smells like cigarette
burnt whiskey with a splash
of Saturday night desperation.
I’m having a hard time wading
through the hormones splashing
against my shore, yet those
green, sea glass eyes of yours are
tempting me to test the water.
There is something about
the hook in your pickup line
that makes me want to get caught.
I feel tiny lust fed goosebumps
pepper my skin with raised flags
of surrender, but my brain
has a Baptist sin book preaching
I haven’t even reached the bottom rung
of Jacob’s ladder from my last backslide.
I don’t know why I’m arguing with myself.
I’ll bookmark hell with a few more
of those guilt shaming sticky notes,
and find out just how far we can swim.
Even if we’re star crossed Shakespeare failures,
it will beat babysitting that wilted bar flower
next to me who keeps bleating about
how her ex didn’t appreciate the amount ofcash it took to keep her in heels.
©Susie Clevenger 2016
Real Toads ~ Bits of Inspiration ~ Amber Rose Tamblyn