It was fucking St. Patrick's Day again
and strictly amateur hour at the bar. But
we dutifully lined up anyways, tracing the paths
those bent arrows took before they clattered in the corner.
Recorded the drunken impressions of cartoon characters
that ricocheted across the room. One guy was yelling
"Hey Boo Boo" and "Heavens to Murgatroyd!"
at the top of his lungs before sinking into
a Guiness-fueled Droopy Dog kvetch-fest.
I dropped the anchor of cracked faces,
of foam hearts and felt hides. We all got tangled
in the wires, in strands of sticky webbing,
fumbling for a scissors with a rubber grip
so we wouldn't get a shock when we
finally decided to snip the line.
I felt that thing squirming within
and I socked myself in the stomach
to get it to settle down.
A woman in a powder blue jean jacket
handed me a thank you note written in ketchup
on the back of an envelope. U folded it in half
and shoved beneath the fourth leg of the table
to keep it from wobbling. At the end of the night
we staggered out singing all those old novelty songs
Dennis Day used to sing on the old Jack Benny Show.
Christmas in Kilarney, Clancy Lowered the Boom...
In the gutter next to the fountain
there was half a raccoon. The tail was gone.
We took it to be a good sign.