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The Bars Close At Three
by Miriam J. Johnson

We sat at Waffle House
330 AM.
Wendy, Lindsay, Ashleigh, Amy
And I,
Ever sober,
Had coffee.

Others had food
Matching their various states;
Inebriation.

Wendy ignored the salt
With hash browns.
Instead keyed messages
On her sleek cell.

Ashleigh managed to cut
And fork a waffle with ease;
Considering five
F*** Me Blues.

Amy, poor dear,
Slurred and weaved
Feeding her lap.
No matter,
Cold grits are good from table
Or bench.

Lindsay announced
"I have to pee."
Fifteen minutes later
She fished her phone
From the toilet.

Amy saw the juke box,
Fell three times.
I lit a cigarette;
Ashleigh reached the window,
Burned her shirt;
Never noticed.
Lindsay dried her phone,
Dropped it in juice.

Amy, yelled words;
Didn't match the song.
Cecil,
The cook,
Sang with her,
Not the music.

I re-lit;
Ashleigh drew hearts;
Lindsay dumped her juice;
Betty slipped on bacon
Bringing a mop;
Amy danced with homeless Jeb;
Cecil crooned flipping burgers;
Betty mumbled;
I ashed in oatmeal;
Lindsay licked her phone;
Ashleigh giggled;
Jeb grabbed Amy;
Amy squealed;
Wendy slammed her cell and said,
"I think I just had text message sex."



About the author:
I am a 24 year old from Alabama. I currently live in Oxford, UK where I am doing an MA in Publishing to follow up my MA in Creative Writing.

Eventually, I may even be employable.



© 2013 Word Riot

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Midnight Picnic
a novel by
Nick Antosca

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The Suburban Swindle


More about The Suburban Swindle
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