Bloody Mary's in the Morning

A poem about drinking and something else I haven't quite got a handle on yet.

Bloody Mary's in the Morning

The dog was under the table, a coffee table littered with cigarette butts and beer bottles. It was the place everyone kept returning to, to smoke, to pour more wine, drink more beer. And there were the Vodka shots, she was not allowed. She wasn't Russian. Her liver wasn't like their's. Only three shots glasses on the table, for the four. Behind the table, was the keyboard, and Russian songs. The Russian woman was drunk, her singing was more like the howl of a dog. The Russian woman joked, your girlfriend should learn Russian. Joked? The Russian boyfriend said she's smart but not that smart. More joking... The Russian woman was not articulating her words well, and then not at all. Mary knew this; she didn't need Russian to know this. Then the Russian woman danced. She kept dancing as the men did not watch. Her hands danced close to Mary's face. She danced and they returned to pour shots. Her's were poured smaller each time. Allthough as a good Russian drinker, she protested vehemently. Hands danced, in front of the table, close to Mary, her eyes hidden from theirs, (Mary's boyfriend: "She's listening to the songs of her youth. She needs this") and they poured her small vodka shots and gave her pot. And still she danced, her hands close to Mary's face, her feet close to the dog sheltered under the table, she danced, and occasionally she shrieked for no apparent reason.