Nursing an aluminum Coke can -
one quarter full, three fourths empty -
replaying the pop of the tab - penetration,
sigh - in my cloudy and high head
while scrawling a line of half-remembered Hamlet,
on a half-seen hardwood counter top,
next to careless, sordid, scratched-in,
Freudian phalli -
slips of the pen - is
how I loitered the local bar.
