Happy Hour

By Samuel McConochie

Didn’t mean to interrupt you—

but he does this: Every. Fucking. Time.

The drunk always in brewed,

repeating stories over listening to mine.

He’s regular, craving attention—

DTs brought on the bends.

Beer ten out of pretension.

Here we go again…

Luckily I have this bitter—

it’s starting to taste sweet.

I’m just a drunken babysitter,

watch him fall off his seat.

“Aww, one more drink,” the midnight beg,

complaining ’bout his friends.

Piss and moan—change the keg.

Happy hour never ends…

By Samuel McConochie