friday at five

it's five o'clock.
everywhere.
I can hear the corks pop.
the ice
tumble into glasses,
ties come off.
the phones are muted.
the happy hour crowd
huddles at the bar.
rings are slipped into
pockets. lipstick applied.
calls are made.
i'll be late tonight
honey. work is killing
me..
don't wait up for me,
they say, as they tap their
feet to the steel band,
throw down another drink
and cross
their fingers with each
new lie.