Saturday, February 26, 2011

2nd Selection

Happy Hour

The amateurs have gathered in the bar,

some of whom can barely keep it down,

and at their yacky-yack and har-dee-har,

the shelves of mirrored bottles sigh, and frown.

The pro keeps to himself. He does not sneer;

these tourists in his kingdom pay the rent.

He gestures graciously to this idea;

his vodka smiles at him, beneficent.

At last the hour is over. Neon blinks

on empty stools; the bottles all relax.

The king abides, his forehead to his drink,

and waits the stroke that cuts the scene to black.

He shudders as it takes him: mirrored high,

sees all the bottles, sneering, empty, dry.

--Deanna Hopper

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