friday 

there he sits
on a breathless friday night
and will continue to stay perched
for the many more to come

swirling a lugubrious liquid
he watches it lick
the sharp edge that rims
the glass

upon a grasp
it’s well on its way past
his lips

it now glistens
on his tongue
until it slips

down
into the crevice
of glum
nostalgia that he nurses
with rum after rum
until it’s done

and then he’ll ask for another one