Bar Insomnia

Over and above the perennial
roar-hum of the air conditioning,
and the unpredictable plasticky
dropping of toys by the children who live upstairs,
my thoughts and worries charge,
like thirsty punters in a rowdy bar,
jostling their orders to the fore.

These things don’t matter,
you’ll see tomorrow,

says Matthew McConaughey,
who at first seems like a friend.
He saunters in, rain dripping
cinematically from the wavy rim of his Stetson,
easily orders a drink and hikes spurred boots heavily onto a table
to watch the fun and games.

I’ll be here all night!
Can someone please change the god awful music?

But the song’s set in stone.
It’s a virus I think I've picked up at the gym.

We found love in a hopeless place,
a hopeless place…

Each time it ends I put it back on,
in defiance of the flying empties and voices
that holler for me not to.

Play that one more time,
I will shoot you square between your eyes,

dares McConaughey with a tricky hand in his duster coat,
momentarily hushing the room.
But I call his bluff and he lets it go,
grinning coolly under his dipping hat.
The verses play out like a scratched CD,
skipping over words I don’t know.

I kick the sheets off,
and so goes the night.