Queen Mab

I say that no one is satiated. I say this with much urgency,
but this is a lie and nothing in text is earnest.

Absolutely No Drinking.

Until today, we were staying above a bar named
The Paris
employing only Irish men
who pour Redbreast a little shorter than I’d prefer.
In New York, I suffer my posture
and I want to let everyone know I drink whiskey,
and the long walks twist into delerium
and we get lost
and we try out both keys in every door
underneath a section of Hell’s Kitchen with only
a paper covered Modelo.
We return to the apartment above the bar where
some of the time I talk out my tired stories,
unknowing of whether I have retold them even here.
They were stories coarsely tuned to help me to escape,
but our memories are scattered all over, yes,
even here.
The ringer is how
I keep hoping that asking my father if he
needs any coffee
makes me seem more an Adult
and less a little girl.