A poem walks into a bar.
Of course it drinks too much wine.
It's a poem. Of course it falls in love
with the most beautiful, unattainable woman,
or man, or both, and scrawls itself
onto a cocktail napkin, slips under
her/his glass. Of course she/he
lifts the glass and never sees.
The beauty leaves with the lout
and the poem, the poem says so.