i’m not a naked twelve year old on shrooms, so you’ll have to make do
seven men sit at the bar, concrete dust under their nails, quarry dirt flaking
off steel-toed boots and onto the floor. i will sweep it away with the rushes later when
the lanterns have gone out. two of them are on cell phones,
one checking his fantasy football scores, the other muttering into a speaker. the
rest stare at my hands as they wring out limes for a margarita.
under the meager light of a buzzing neon used car sign, these men complete
a bastardized ritual: they have consulted an oracle. are you sure you’re old enough to
pour me this beer? they’ll ask, before telling me about their wives and employees. they
did not come here for a drink. they came here for the lacquered wood
of my roadhouse bar that reminds their bones of caves where men are allowed
women’s wisdom. it makes no difference that i have not been a virgin in ten years; they
hand me a few silver coins or a riddle in exchange for words of advice.
all ancient transactions remain bartered out in modern currency.
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Poetry
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Poetry