in the pub across the road
men and women are drinking from
carefully polished glasses
and the beer is as cold
as the loneliness that makes them gather

their lips are practicing group discussion
lived with the euphoria of the man who doesn't want to know
but wants to belong
above them airplanes and birds and clouds and other
accessories of the sky are passing by
no one’s watching
but their well polished glass

I’d like to change something
I’d like to walk across
and read them a poem
it would be so pathetic
so all I do is stare towards
my well polished glass with cold beer
and poetry hidden at the bottom