bar scene

The slob puts down his drink
For just a second
To pull taut the string between
His teeth and the young lady’s brain
And whispers into his whisky.

An important man,
Masked, but recognizably important nonetheless
Has come to deliver a message,
But it is soon understood this important man
Has no mother tongue.

Wildly gesturing: Long winters, stampede,
A great weight, a hiding place—
The barman’s coattails light up!
He shrugs his jacket to the floor,
It comes alive, personified

In a panicking fury, furled and rearing
“Just fine, just fine,” murmurs the young lady.
Says, “Second hand smoke, I’m blowing it,
I’m blowing it.”
The stage light yawns,
Low and blue on the slob, now at the microphone

He once more puts down his whiskey
And whispers, slow, finely drawn out
Carving tactile shapes with his vowels,
Interpreting the important masked man’s story.
But the flames are licking the bar,
And those who have not already fled
Never noticed any of the above.