Me: sitting alone
at the edge of a bar,
which has no real shape
other than wiggling path it takes
to fit the space of the pub.

There are curves, right angles,
cautious bends, even little walls
that the bar manages to squeeze through,
emerging from the other side,
still oak, still a bar.

I flipped through a cheap paperback,
slowly working my way down a pint,
trying a little too hard to imagine
myself someplace else,
which shouldn’t have been too difficult
given that they built the place to make
it feel like you’re in Ireland, yet I know that
Ireland unequivocally ends at the door.

Just down the block
you can visit China, or neo-China,
and if that doesn’t make you wet
than certainly the retro milkshake
and burgers joint across the street will.
The servers and cooks even dance when you play
certain songs on the table jukeboxes,
and they actually make a go
at not looking too depressed or angry about it.

I swear to God it was amazing how
on day one there were trees,
a thick knot of trees standing guard north of the city,
and on day two there were men
with yellow hats and bulldozers,
the worker bees,
and on day three a world
had been dropped onto the land,
and the land was instantly populated
with speedy and serious consumers.

The place only stops moving
for a short time early in the morning,
a strange peace with no silence,
just electrical buzzing and flickerhumming,
which is soon interrupted by
activity at the Krispy Kreme.


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