Member-only story
That stare is first in line.
An overbearing brew
with heavy-handed hints
of unashamed disdain
served with glassy eyefuls.
That stare won’t be pulled,
filling you to the brim.
A full-bodied fermentation
of anxious fizz
until your head is overflowing
That stare’s an acquired taste.
A bitter pale in the booth;
A floral amber by the fire;
A light tonic on the darts;
A heavy stout slinging pints.
That stare shares your table.
The third leg for your stool.
Resting by the bar,
offers you a light
and talks into urinals.
The more I drank it in
it quenched my thirst completely.
A place to swirl my mouth,
around, around and another.
That next stare, is on me.
