A few years later, and I've moved on to another job as a banker instead of a paper grader. I somehow find myself back at the same bar that I swore off due to the embarrassing time I had there when I first went, when I heard that mortifying piece of poetry written about me. The memories have worn off enough, and I was out on the town anyway, so I asked myself why not.
The bar holds the same air as it did when I was here last -- not rowdy enough for me to be bumped around, not quiet enough for my every move to be monitored by at least one other person in the club. I had no idea that they would be holding another open mic tonight, but I am pleasantly surprised. I'm not very well disposed towards the music they play at clubs, and I do enjoy poetry. It soothes me in partnership with the alcoholic drink I order at the counter.
Another poet takes the stage as I take my first sip. His words are not material that would ever be published or analyzed in schools for multiple centuries, but instead they're light-hearted and wild. They remind me of someone I used to know, someone I lied to so they would leave me alone and minimize the pain. But it doesn't last forever, and I end up feeling a sort of connection to this poet that I don't want to dishonor by allowing another poet to fill me with his work. Having finished my drink, I get up to leave a couple seconds after my favorite poet has left the stage. I swing my jacket around my body and feel a tap on my shoulder soon afterwards.
Hoping it's not someone trying to pick me up for the night, I spin around.
"I think my poetry got shittier now that it's not about you."
~~~~~
A/N: ooh lil cliffhanger wowowow anyway im done w this shit goodnight
~Dakootie patootie (@lana-obama asked that I use this so whatever)