Mixed Drinks at the Bar of No Return

You were a failed bartender, mixing prescription drugs and bourbon with shards of photographs you scissored after the breakup.

You thought she was the one. She was the wrong one.

You ran with scissors at the angel who whispered that you call for help. The numbers on the phone were ants, crawling off the dial, crawling into your drink.

Someone somewhere heard you call for help.

You wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Some nights, I dream of ants.

published in Imogene's Notebook