the bartender says, lifting my Tecate
from the bamboo countertop
and slipping beneath it a coaster advertising
47 Ronin, opening Christmas Day in Theaters
and Real-D 3D. This being the day before
St. Patrick’s Day, it’s not exactly timely,
but there he is every time I take a sip,
long haired and wielding a samurai sword.
I’m here to see my friend perform
in her novelty country duo, but before she comes on
we’re being serenaded by a smoky little
weekday stripper/weekend folk singer
strumming sad chords, her throaty rasp drowned out
by the self-satisfied squeaking of the girl two stools over,
who is desperately trying to convince her friend
(and herself) that everything in her life is magical
now that she’s finally on the right path and found
the love of her life, a burly, bald, bouncer-type
with a goatee who sits to her other side,
never looking up from his phone.
Plunge that sword into their eyes, Keanu.
Skewer them with your dreamy, deadly scowl.
And for Christ’s sake keep the Tecates coming.