It's one a.m. on a Friday night,
and women
and men
are in hot, damp bars,
drunk.
Some are happily pressing
their sticky, wet skin
against one another,
swaying and mating
to an exhausted band
spitting out old standbys
like "Cocaine" and "Free Bird".

And some
are sitting alone,
so needful that they ache.
Some small and some fat,
some with facial features
that are off just ever so much.
And wearing all the wrong clothes.
Bad hair and cheap cologne.
Acne.

They gaze at each other
and think about the drive home,
whether tonight or in the morning,
either way, sad and alone.
And it comes down to
whether they want to get laid
that badly.