Rachael Mead #12, The work function

The work function

The fat glass is at home in my palm.

I try not to grip it with both hands.

It won’t save me.  Adrift in a sea

of strangers, I measure out mouthfuls.

Please don’t ask me a question.

This expression of engaged interest

is precarious. One glass

aids conversation. The second

vanishes keeping my hands busy.

Three is dangerous. The conversation

remains safely medical, nothing

is expected. If I wore a watch

I’d be checking it. The glass is empty

but I keep holding it.  A refill

would be blissful but I know

one more glass

and I’ll turn

this conversation

to poetry.

Watch them

check their watches,

edge to the bar.