I am eyeballing this bar-poet,
a self-proclaimed piece of shit drunk,
who just happens to have the stubbled beauty
and help-me-I’m-drowning sensuality
that gets me every goddamn time -
he knows I am watching him, they all know,
but it takes too much effort to lift
anything more than a 12 oz. bottle, so he keeps
his eyes to himself, spits out his litany of
sunflower-seeded desperation into a blue spiral notebook,
and belches twice for good measure.
I want him. Goddamn it. Or maybe I just want
to be the one plastered between his pages, fucked
in ink until my leg-wrapped moans become immortalized
and emblazoned on that little spot he has reserved
for the memorable, for the worthy, for the one
who will scratch love into his heart with pretty pink nails,
then lick the wounds during 4 a.m. fantasies -
I admit it, desire is pathetic when you’re sucking pimentos
out of canned olives from Jersey.
I look down at the napkin I’ve written my name on -
misspelled, and a phone number I’m not sure is my own.
fuck it.
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
thank you for your read - I do really appreciate it. 
Love, Lane
This is a remarkable poem, full of rich and vivid colour.
