Freedom

in a bar where the toilet overflows first,

a man with broken knuckles spoke to me about love

like someone spitting blood into a filthy sink.

the women left him,

so did the poetry.

all he had left was the beer and a dirty ashtray.

he told me life isn’t hard,

we make it hard.

I laughed a little.

then I watched a dog cross the street without looking.

and I thought. I want to be like that too:

free without asking permission, brave with no one to impress.

that line stuck to my ribs.