In the corner, a sign: “Welcome back students!”
(Oh, who could doubt Bud Light’s sincerity?)
“The townies are nice,
(As far as they go)
But the size of their tabs doth butter no bread.”
Merchants of spirits will always prefer
The deluge over the modest trickle.
Full for a weeknight, this place seems to me.
The close, thick air,
Breathed in by too many lungs,
Shows off proudly its perfume
Of grease, old sweat,
And stale, sour hops.
How many paramours have been drawn by that scent?
Lines of glass soldiers stand at attention,
Waiting to be drained of their courage,
Shot by shot.
Bitterness is sweet here,
A flavor to be savored,
Rolled ‘round the tongue then swallowed down;
An arid rain to dry wet fields.
An old, kind, self-conscious biker-type,
My grandfather’s ghost tends bar.
A red bandana over a ponytail stirs black and white memories;
Long legs astride a battered black Harley,
Easy grin tearing the corners of his lips,
Faded, cliché bald eagle tattoos
Adorning weather-leathered arms.
Grampa Chuck serves drinks with a smile
To the hot press of bodies that encircle him.
Sounds of glee and mirth pierce through the murmur
Of robot buzzing bees,
And generic rock music,
That no one listens to but everyone must talk over—
They did not come for the music any more than they came for the alcohol.