I had a dream of 68 men drinking all around
hands full with glasses of cheap tavern ale
sometimes slamming on the table.
The sound of slaps as barmaids swish by
and squeals escaping their lips.
The shouts and threats
from drunken breath
promising a tavern brawl.
The barkeep’s flitting eyes
worrying for those whose threats aren’t empty.
The broken chairs, the tables marred
money lost aplenty.
And suddenly all eyes on me,
drinking quietly at the bar.
They leer and lick their sunchapped lips,
hands resting on what they feel so proud of,
and say to me, “Hey little lady,” pointing all around,
“we are 68, come join us to give us 69!”
His mates all laugh at their most humorous joke,
the room soon rumbling from the sound.
I shake my head and continue drinking.
No pay for me
no men for me,
as I proceed with
my day off.