Last Call

Liam Day

It is for me and not for you
to say what will be, though
I’ve no idea what is destined

and, to be frank, don’t care.
Keep the pittance you’ve collected
or, better yet, go spend it

somewhere I’m not on items
you don’t need and of which
you know I won’t approve.

Guilty pleasure is best, is it not?
Like mud you’re told as a child
not to play with, but which feels

so good oozing through
squat fingers. Go ahead.
Take some, splatter it

on whatever’s in striking distance,
smear what’s left on
what was until then a clean t-shirt.

People get paid to make messes;
the ones who pick up more than not
get stuck with the bill.

Run for it; the waitresses won’t
mind. Tired, they’ve worked
two shifts, though there isn’t

traffic for one of them,
the few parties they served
left them less than 20%

and in their hearts believe in
something they can’t quite
articulate. Unfortunately,

metaphor isn’t an option.
Other customers might complain.