75. Not about a tattoo

I got a tattoo today. But I'm not going to write about it. See, I was busy getting it and then having a celebratory drink or so with my awesome-like-you-read-about best-friend Robert, so I'm going to put it off til tomorrow when I have time to give it a good thought and bring to bear the full brunt of my skill. See, it's because I love you.

I'm on the left. Robert's on the right. It's hard to tell us apart, I know.

So, instead of writing about my tattoo, I said to Robert, "Give me a topic. Anything." Because I'm awesome. Jerk said, "Bar stools."  So...

Today I got my very first first tattoo!

But that's not what I'll talk about tonight.

There's celebrating, drinking still to do;

I'll put off tattoo talk to do it right.

My best friend Robert: “Write about bar stools.”

so thought I of their shape, their spin, their heft,

the way you pick them up and smash them on drunk fools

and melt-down on then, girlfriend-scarred, bereft.

Beyond that, though, there's not much left to say.

They're sticks to hold and sit and drink a beer;

we sit upon them, menu give assay.

Perhaps more credit to them should adhere.

Who cares? For maybe bar stools look askance

at those who choose to sit and not to dance.