day one hundred and ninety-nine : fridays at nogata eki

everyone around me at midnight in nogata station
is throwing up or about to
well
almost.
the smell-
every friday.

and all the men are smiling
crookedly, sinisterly.
the women relax their smiles
to frown at their feet
that refuse to agree
with their five inch heels.

normally i would not dichotomize so- but it is simply that.

it is unsettling
men all still in their suits and gelled hair, briefcases
but they are given free range to blunder and bubble about

the alcohol doesn't make them any freer;
they just seem agitated.
as if they were searching for answers in the evening
but are still left wanting.

usually when i've drunk in the past,
i smile
worry less
move with less reserve

but everyone
tonight
seems so
angry, annoyed

and as i pass an izakaya,
a woman waving farewell to a patron
who is falling over his shoes and bag
swaying toward the river,
i realize:
the greatest difference between the japanese and i
is not the language at all.
it is that i am not
so incredibly
miserable