Sofia by Night

I'll miss the last bus
and wonder where to go.

I'll roll my head in a circle
with the crack of something broken

and with shoulders and eyebrows raised,
with eyelids lowered

I'll plod, lids drooping, 12 kilometres
on into the night.

And the packs of stray bartenders
will ask whether I'd like anything

while they wipe the empty glasses
with dry looks.

And I'll swallow my answers
and call out to them softly,

"A small cold whatever-it's-called,"
just so the conversation won't die.

Slowly I'll sip
and listen to the memories of the mad.

I'll prop the drunks up at the tables,
I'll turn the tables on the drunks.

I'll tug at thick, entwined braids
while smiling at shallow, threadbare jokes.

And I'll stop caring, grow callous, and finish my drinks
with the drivers and the hairdressers who love the drivers.

And in the morning I'll punch my own ticket
at the last stop of the first bus.

And I'll spread my shirt and trousers on the couch
to take a nap on top of me.

And, wiser, I'll know by now that you don't request music
from bartenders if you want them one day to become good actors.

To them, that is unforgivable rudeness.