although it should be June 3 still   Jackie, isn’t that your name? From drum class? Did I misunderstand? You look as if I intrude—   paying bar tab, a moment stretched into a universe a lonely bar in Lexington, playing Grateful Dead   re-memory   the curly-haired dude with his arm around her. Your breath smells sour— yet, finally at home   at the corner of a bar universe found in lights stamped into poured concrete bar, poured shots of whiskey, poured   into our ride. You cannot find your way. I nudge you, Jackie. Jackie. Left or right? You poured   yourself out. Thanks, guys. You wave. Like we are a ride. Friends. Not the strangers who shared our ride. And   I wonder. What if it wasn’t us? How many other rides home? Lost. Four white paper bar   napkins scrawled in ink from a plastic pen found somehow from bottom of my back pack the one I take to real shows, not just to a bar in town to see a local band.