Ode to Pascal

I used to go to this bar
when I was eighteen.
Where they would serve you liquor
without checking id.

The kind of place where they would mix
coors light and captin morgans
And claim it a margarita.

Ten men all ugly
shoving their wedding rings
into the fifth pocket of their Levis
while licking back the strands of their eyebrows.

Go back to the motel room
where they serve cheap chamange
the kind that gives you gas
instead of a buzz
and laying sideways
thinking of other names to scream in bed.