Seven

“So tell me: on a scale of one to ten,
what would you rate your life?” Somehow, again,
I’ve found myself inside a stranded bar
with made-up drag queens, doughy bankers. Far

away, the girls I came with flirt with men
in navy cargo pants and boat shoes. When
was that in fashion? I’m all set to leave,
depart in silence, pizza my reprieve,

until the strange man corners me and chirps,
“How would you rate your life?” Long-nailed, he slurps
what could be one of those Long Islands, though
I just don’t care. Probably, years ago,