At the Pub with the Museum Staff
As if anyone has the desire . . .
Vickey trailed off, pouring another lager
There'll be nothing left
But fur and bone, as my lawyer once explained
To my ex, she resumed, tapping a long cigarette
On the bar. My, you're a bit snarky tonight
Said Luther. Maybe you need a change of venue,
A beach with your breath on it
Oh, she replied, nodding towards the far corner booth,
These writers are so obnoxious
I wish they'd find a new place to complain.
Ha, said Hillary, they wouldn't know a good story
If it bit 'em in the butt. Plus, added Vickey
There's always the lurking danger
One may launch into a speech on human nature.
I'll back that, said Rick (who, when animated
Would lick his index finger and sweep it back and forth
As if quickly turning pages of a catalog)
They're just a bunch of spare parts clogging a garage.
Hear, hear, exclaimed Hillary, let's give it to the boors
And literary whores.
How a bonfire magnifies everything. Or that early
Skift of snow across brown meadows
When you still haven't canned the peaches.
Settle down Rick, said Luther, this isn't Chicago
Indeed, Vickey countered, this town used to be known
As Little Jerusalem by certain parties in the old days
All the churches. And hypocrite politicians,
Added Luther. Well, it's all downhill from the north
Where wanness began its mission, continued Rick,
Waving his empty pint. Jesus, you can be a bore, said Vickey
All heroes become bores eventually, instructed Hillary
But did you know when Rick was born
He looked like a little worm. His aunt told me —
Luther, studying her profile, said
I was a little worm too