The bar was packed
with an assortment of unsavory-looking men
and lizard women who seemed like they’d evaporate into a puff of smoke
the moment that they set foot outside the blood-red room.
Eric had a whiskey, Greg had a beer,
and I ordered a club soda, no ice, no lime.
The bartender gave them theirs
and took their time with mine,
which arrived with ice and a lime.
We toasted to silence and comedy,
Brooklyn and bullshit under our breath
but knew we would be back
in this type of bar for the rest of our lives.