poem of the day 03.13.13

juice bar

my wife and i

stand in line at a juice bar

we’ve decided not to drink on sundays

because we’re getting older

because sundays have always been

an alcohol free-for-all

arguments and sloppy sex

movies neither of us remember

and books we’ll have to reread the next day

this is sober sunday

so we’re in a juice bar line

with dozens of others

thin people who never wake up on monday morning

hot with sunday hangovers

really feeling the actuality of their death

and the juice bar is decked out in green and orange

and other earthy colors

there are pictures of hearts all over the place

to remind you that you are doing something

good for the body

i imagine regular bars decked out in bleak colors

blacks and grays and whites

and pictures of saturated livers hanging about

but this just makes me wish that  i was in a bar

instead of in a juice bar line

with dozens of young people texting

or bobbing their heads to the loud and terrible

disney pop playing overhead

covers of covers of old songs

with other aging assholes fooling themselves

on a sunday afternoon

and the juice bar workers are overly friendly

when someone walks in the door

one of the workers shouts, welcome to jammin’ juice

then it is like a chain, an echo of workers

whether busy or not

shouting

welcome to jammn’

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

the whole thing reeks of artifice

a corporate ideal of hospitality

complete with a shot of wheatgrass

to help keep you on this planet longer than you’d like to be

it’s like being in a foreign country actually

and each time you place an order

the juice bar worker takes your name

instead of giving you a number

you do not get a paper receipt

because we’re all saving the world in this juice bar

it’s not the workers fault that it is this way

they need to make a buck

chances are good most of these people

would be getting drunk with their sunday

or standing in a juice bar line somewhere else

when your healthy drink comes up

your smoothie

or your juice mixed with crushed ice

one of the juice bar workers shouts your name

like they’ve known you forever

and the young stop texting for a moment

to go up to the counter for their sixty-ounce blast

of pomegranate paradise

or peach passion

or strawberry swirl

sucking it half way down before they even leave the juice bar

while the rest of us stand there

listening to the disney music

the whirl of blenders

the door opening to a folksy bell

and another chorus of

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

the blood pressure rising

a sense of propriety shot to shit

when each new drink that arrives is not our order

my wife and i

standing in this juice bar line

on a sober sunday afternoon

still somewhat convinced we’re doing something good

something healthy

instead of shoving down all of that poison

in the quiet of our own home

or sitting in a dead bar

with a cold beer

watching the warm sun shower the good earth

from behind smeared glass

just like the good lord

originally intended.