Not Enough

She stumbles in through the front door
and sits at the stool next to me
I take a pull off my bottle sitting next to
my whiskey on the rocks.
She looks at me and looks to her left,
her body lurching like someone
whose blood has grown too dizzy.
Her and the bartender make eye contact.
She tries to order a drink. The bartender
isn't having it. She's cut off before a first
order. "I'll serve you but I'll only serve
you water. You're already too drunk."
I take a small sip of whiskey.
She's mad. She's belligerent. She's the
kind of drunk where memory has ceased
to function, where reason has been
overwhelmed and surrendered
to an invading force. The replay
of the days games are playing
on the TV's around the bar. Rap music
is playing on the jukebox. Voices
and cigarette smoke blend together
effortlessly. She wants her drink.
She wants her drink now. She looks
at the bartender and says
"Is it my hairy cunt?"
For a moment the bartender says
nothing. "No, it's because you're
drunk." She walks away to take
care of an order on the opposite
end of the bar.
My drinks are sweating.
I listen to the sounds blend together
so seamlessly that soon enough
I hear nothing at all.