Larrick

 

Behind a bar

is far from calm

on a Friday

 

when lords and ladies of

ales and whiskies get

tipsy as eclipses

adrift on Blue Moon’s tide

 

and I grip taps to avoid

cross-eyed conversations

and laughing at those ordering

Becks Blue shandies or “light tonic”

 

before I stare through a sweaty window’s

upper lip where a blistered street

spits bodies at our feet

then I cup my ear

to exalt fears over distilled

kidney tears

on the rocks

 

after doubt dribbles down our throats

as some shoot pool

(gimme’ that cue

here’s a spirit level)

 

I stack glasses and tabs and plates and

wait! I’ll be right with you.

The End

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