soup

the lot
i’m lonesome and depressive,
but not because of any one girl.
it’s because of the whole lot of them.
i take a drink, just a little one,
more ice than scotch.
that’ll surely lead to another.
“might as well make me another,” i say.
someone’s looking at me from across the room.
do i really need another?
might as well.
it’s already been poured.
it’s already been paid for.

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