“There were no teenagers in cut-off jeans. No leather jackets.
Smoking cigarettes. Not fucking on every corner. That was a class that was invented.
But no one knows. Those who do—they have to know to survive.”
"I’m going to be squished here, now, you standing right behind me.
I guess everyone is afraid to go up. There. To. There. Everyone is afraid—”
“Big step now. Yep. That’s right. And another. Big step. Good boy!”
Here, each person’s chatter fills everyone’s damn space,
conversations held with self without knowing, with air,
with invented enemies, and children who haven’t yet learned to fight.
Here is a place without inhibition:
a place that’s like that bar you call your local,
but it’s not just on your corner
in your neighborhood
with your drinks
served by your bartender, the one who calls you by name.
This local has been built to your dimensions—
can’t you see it?—
The curve of your lips,
The cadence of your speech,
The notch of your height,
had a friend or lover etched it onto peeling paint in the archway of the entrance to your living room,
the way your mom used to do when the only things you were sure were yours
were her and time.
Yes, this local, you see,
has been built with doors designed to fit your height,
to serve only your drink, and play your music,
and take one ID: yours.
In this kind of local,
you can be drunk without knowing.
Or knowing without paying mind.
You can sink yourself into a cushioned seat,
crusted and frayed, faded by the yous who came before;
build yourself into a world of memory, or fears,
or histrionics, or milestones, or hope,
for as long as you need to, until you decide to stop—
and if you don’t like it, get out of my way—
because to you, the world you’re building yourself into was always already here.
Here, every you sees this as theirs,
each one more sure than the next,
each body posturing to fit the space,
each voice rising to tell everyone, “mine.”
Each of you is sure that this is yours—
but none of you ever made sure to check.