From the corner of the bar
the woman in your sights
sneers at your feeble targeting.
Says you should know better
than to play at being a boy
in grown up places
and circumstances.
Says you ought to go home
and tuck yourself in.

Give it a minute.
You’ll down the last of that craft beer
and get up
and get out.

You’ll go home
and sit up the rest of the night
listening to the most profound music
you own, which ten years from now
won’t impress you or
anyone else,
and you’ll think about
how wrong she was

till just before dawn
when as you fall asleep
you’ll allow yourself
a boy’s luxury
of a single
acquiescent tear
of agreement:
yeah, you guess
you should have
known better.

When you wake up
at dusk,
you will have forgotten.