Each Time Uglier 

I’ve seen it before, y’know,
I didn’t say it out loud, but rather thought it to myself.

Pulling up on the barstool beside him,
all the fortitude of a crash-test dummy.

The air around him electrified,
a fragile peace balanced precariously on whiskey-sullied breath.

Not much light left in his eyes these days,
just a steady dullness.
Friendship replaced with sullen stares.

Halting conversation.
No relaxed warmth nor friendly banter.
Only words tiptoeing around ruptured eggshells,
each one rotten.

Suddenly, he’s raging, triggered by some casual comment,
as if he has a God-given right.
Spitting bile across the barroom,
looking for trouble, looking to fight.

Pitching like a sloop battling freak waves,
then pauses. Tears fill his eyes.
Maybe he saw his snarling reflection
in the mirror behind the optics,
where the truth hides.

Drunk tears are really no tears at all,
mixed with spilt beer and self-pity,
drowning on the smashed-glass floor.

He’s off now, barely grunts a goodbye,
storming off into the night,
probably won’t remember tomorrow,
why he was angry.

I’ve seen it many times,
each time a little uglier.