I hate being the last one at the bar
Everyone has left and all there is
Is the stale unwanted scent of beer
The last pint set out for sorrowful consumption
But this moment never came to mind

When wrestling with the idea of conversation
I wiggled my presence into the tiny corridor
Of the late-night poetry party
Full with a array of random characters
Grease soaked fries in what looked like
An American-Irish attempt at poutine
--Don't offend the Canadians, they rule here--
All of them consorting over this night's discourse
Poems, stories, friendship, and the outcast -- myself--
All propped together in a college oasis
However, comfort was never settled as my oddity
Seemed to come off as a full suit and tie
Compared to ragged slot machines
Asking for a quarter to jump start their night
And so when they left, one pint to go
They all said goodbye in the polite scheme of
"Enjoy it! We're afraid!"

And so I sit here pondering the events of this party
No more than thirty minutes and I'm alone
Rusty as all get-out to make friends
In the chaotic noise I call poetry
Hoping this pint will leave itself
And magically run away
So I never have to. 

Published by Bryn Montgomery