It was 9:45 pm.
Maybe the room was dark,
the air musky with smoke.
Maybe the drinks were strong, cheap,
a smooth mixture of whiskey , rum, tequila
stirring through his veins.
Maybe it was payday
and the thrill of cash
flowing from fingers felt like freedom.
Maybe he got rowdy.
Maybe he kicked the jukebox,
punched the wall, so sloppily
he barely left a dent.
Maybe he stumbled out,
keys jingling in sync, in rhythm
with the hum of the engine.
Maybe his shirt was stained
with barbeque sauce.
Maybe his blue, rusty, Chevy truck
reeked of fried food and beer.
Maybe he pulled, or rather screeched, out of the parking lot
burning rubber behind.
Maybe he forgot to turn his headlights on.
Maybe it didn’t matter as his eyes dazed in and out,
heavy with liquor and lack of sleep.
Maybe Lynard Skynard was his entertainment,
the unexpected soundtrack
of a soon to be horror film,
reverberating through crackling speakers.
Maybe it was chance, coincidence.
It was a concoction, a cocktail