THE  27Th  EDITIOn

—boiling with news of campfire breakups

and family business rivalries scratching the back 

of the newspaper offering recycled gossip— 

A bar carrying the scent of battered baseball 

coaches, kinky lemonade, and cigarettes

begging anyone walking in to gamble or 

laugh about the last bachelor party they attended.

It’s not enough to entertain the town’s reputation,

crab rangoons, house parties, margaritas, river 

sunsets or the steaming hot off the press news. No—

the bar believes its clientele can do better. Laugh harder. 

Find targets beyond the dart board. I avoid wearing red

when I walk in. The bar believes we can do better. 

Be louder than the sound of the bartender

slamming dice against the countertop drizzled 

in Cowboy Hat drool and long island liquor

making it easy to shuffle out dollar bills because

do you like being in handcuffs and of course 

you wouldn’t get the joke right away

slip in as the only comments when I’m not 

dancing by the pool table telling the amber lights 

to turn strobe and slide my way. Because you have it so easy

being a girl in this bar. I have to hold my breath.