I’m drinking messages from bottles,
to be served domestically.
The girl balancing it to my table
doesn’t look old enough to be here
but the people in charge
place aesthetics over taste
and this beer is good,
although it’s a little too full.
It still foams at the head
and although it’s a little too cold
the glass still sweats down into an ocean.
And I dream of cigarettes,
waiting for a reply to that text I sent
to long ago to remember.