Fiction · POEMS

The Lunch Hour

Clock strikes 12 and we couldn’t wait to leave. Its myself, Mark, and wild man Steve.The stress of work was just too much to take.So we carpooled to a bar for alcohol sake.This is the lunch hour we’ll never forget.The story I’m about to share is really quite lit.

The drinking starts over fully loaded fries.2 shots,3 shots, the count hits the skies.We got carried away and now we’re just 3 drunk guys.It was 12:35 when I saw this man in a shadow.Across the bar drinking scotch in his own silent battle.Wild man goes over, while Mark stands lateral.

Its the bossman Steve shouted and now we’re fucked.He would be drinking here too, that’s just my luck. He’s going to fire us before we get back and run amuck.Bossman just scoffs and smiles at our discomfort.He pays our tabs because his pockets will never hurt. I’m drunk everyday and no one seems to notice.Works for me, so hopefully, this will help you focus.

With that, he points at the clock and hits the exit. 12:50 concludes our awkward drinking segment. We return to work and have to do our best.Bossman walks passed us and treated us like the rest.We didn’t get fired so that thought was debunked.From that day forward, lunch with bossman makes us working drunks.

Just wanted to make some fiction in old style, poetic story telling style. I never done it before and it was rather fun. My girlfriend encouraged me to post it when I was about to keep it to myself in my notebook. Hope you enjoyed it! Have a great weekend!

Be powerful.

2 thoughts on “The Lunch Hour

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