The Irish Way

She didn’t own the bar,

but she owned the bar,

if you know what I mean,

the Irish red-haired beauty

with light freckled skin

and a laugh like windchimes.

She could handle a cloth,

a mug, a till full of money,

a compliment, a come-on,

bleary eyes, and brawling fists

as if she were born

in the bar’s storeroom.

As if she’d cut her teeth

on the legs of the stools,

had drunk milk from the taps.

She moved like a dancer,

her eyes never leaving

a single person out of view.

People respected her

like they respected priests

and little old ladies,

equally awed

and terrified.

I had my first and last fight

in that bar—had felt the pinch

of her strong fingers,

had landed on my backside

just beyond the door.

And when I’d apologized,

she’d looked down and said,

“The hard part about being

a bartender is figuring out

who is drunk

and who is just stupid.*

Which do you want to be?”

I’d laughed and told her

I’d rather be drunk.

Then she’d winked,

and closed the door.

*quote by Richard Braunstein

~~~

Skipping

You became the voice

inside my head

like an old 45,

needle stuck in a groove

you’re not good enough

you’re not good enough

I had no one

to lift the needle,

to play the rest of the song,

and so I spun round and round

inside those lyrics.

~~~

Barroom Brawl

He threw the first punch,

though later

he wouldn’t remember why—

perhaps someone had bumped him

or insulted his boots,

it was all the same to him.

He’d gone in spoiling for a fight,

for a release from the gnawing anger

that clawed his ribcage

that filled his belly in place of food.

People said he’d fallen on hard times,

but truth was

he was raised on hard times,

ate hard times for breakfast,

looked at hard times

through swollen eyes,

purple with his father’s bruises.

So, when he went for months

without a job, without a home,

he’d tell himself he’d known worse.

He’d land on his feet,

and come up swinging.