Routine

They talk about Syria Bacardi Melon and Coca Cola are my buddies tonight. The Middle East is in peril I taste warm Jolly Ranchers. Her sunshine strands graze his stubble Warm suds, both soda and not skin my throat with a rusty fork. His hands carefully cradle porcelain his Muslim worries now forgotten. The plastic, mini-Coke bottle forces me awake, a jab at my forehead. Leather sticks to wet palms, feeling cool to flushed arms. Words turn to noise syllables turn to silence Devotion turns to empty strawberry Poptart wrappers. Thank you, maybe tomorrow my hands will revive themselves. Have a good time? Are you ok? Not again. No thoughts no worries. Just the pleasure of being second. Again.