the drinks are on me

undoes his belt
out flops a belly
soft
like a lazy sunday
full of sweet
nothings
ho ho
bellows the man
in the mirror
that judges
without compassion
at the memory of the man
before the mirror
fat
where ambition used to be
and a red and white suit
sticky
with sweat
and flashbacks
of dreams
and screams of children
that made his day
lying
in a heap
on the floor
like unfinished novels
beside his bed
ho ho holds his liquor
better than ever
a job that pays
on days
of so many smiles
and so many cries
pleasure and pain
he deals in
pleasure and pain
screaming children
stressed mothers
the hot clothes
the sweat
stained beard
the hours waste
like a lifetime,
"hey you,
in the mirror,
the drinks are on me...."