Drink Up -A Poem about the fears within everyone

In the morning, I walk into the place where laptop owners smell like fresh depression and where servers shake like a lost dream left in the rain.

I order the usual.

“ One medium motivation please, two pumps passion and determination, and uhh a sprinkle of regret on top. But make it quick, I need my fix.”

Mr. Americano stands behind me, barking into a phone at his ear, red, white, and blue tie, beer belly bulging over belt, and a briefcase that’s probably full of money to bribe someone into giving up their darkest secrets, or his paperwork, probably.

Barista tells me the kid in the corner clicking their keyboard is Espresso, sometimes they’re here, crunch and clack, sometimes they’re home in bed where even the smell of caffeine energy and achievement can’t reach them.

Drip Coffee is on her way out to drop a scoop of her ground up guts and organs into the hands of every person she’ll meet today. She’ll get a few smiles in return. They’ll make her happy but by the time she gets home the last piece of her soul will rattle inside her like a bead in a blood-covered jar.

And there goes Frappuccino, Cino for short, and her boyfriend out of the Men’s Room. He has her bubblegum pink lipstick on his neck and she’s wearing his too big hat, I remember those days. When he leaves for baseball practice this afternoon she’ll cry while wearing his hoodie until he texts her again, she couldn’t imagine life without him and in a month he will break up with her.

It always comes to mind that I could probably make my drink at home, I and these other patrons never do.

I take my motivation to go this time, so I can make it to the F train and not be late to work,       

“Have a nice day!”

...

In the evening, I walk into the place that reeks of loneliness, empty souls, and internal apathy.

I try to order a redemption over ice. Lucky enough, they’re out of forgiveness. Some time soon I’ll have to settle for a Fear Reviver no.2 hoping it sticks to its title. I had the first one last night and, yeah, poorly named, it did the exact opposite.

Anyways, Mr. Old Fashioned is sitting at a booth with a collection of empty glasses, one full in his raised arm shouting for men, younger than he, that have already achieved more than he ever will from running on the tv screen. He will ignore the calls from his worried wife, he will ignore the calls of his worried liver. He will shove his way past me and puke in an alleyway, he won’t leave for the night without finishing the beer he left at his table.

Manhattan started his night sipping turns to drinking to chugging to laying on the bar while other gay men pour liquor down his throat and over his body. No soda, lime and salt to make the sting feel real. This scene could be mistaken for a drowning, at least until the money runs out, and he’s forced to walk home alone in the dark.

Gladiator is a very similar story except she does it in a leather jacket with a crowd around her, other people buy their own cheers in the form of her downing their little vials of poison. She will consciously, wobbly go home with the guy who looks like he could be a college dropout, or the youngest of five, but definitely the type of guy emotionally stable, totally not codependent girls go out with.

There’s that girl, everyone calls her Cinderella, abandoning her other princesses on the dance floor, leaving them to experience intoxication and the patriarchy. She doesn’t drink so instead she fills her time with the buzz of sugary mocktails and disingenuous compliments from men who would never hold the title of prince if monarchies were as popular now as they used to be.

I usually stay here until Death picks me up and we go back to my place, she’s never there when I always wake up in the morning and I’ve come to nickname her Sleep.

“Have a good night”