Greasy lights and muddy froth water
Hold cusses like crooked stools that angle us.
Cramped as plastic ashtrays.

Plastic that doesn’t shatter when an insult flies loose,
And confused hands throw cigarette troughs
At distinguished disgust.

We trade dull sleep for sharp fists,
And snapping blows to frowning faces.
Until he trips on locked legs
And smiles red to silliness.

Just another Friday night.