Sunday, March 27, 2011


Thirteen cattails, each holding its shot glass
nod by the bar. They almost have faces. If you try hard
you can see them. (Try another drink.) They grow here wild,
immortal, in bronze corduroy jackets with thistly collars.
Round about six they begin to appear, displacing
the water lilies and the more exotic growths.

The raw tincture of potato is not for them.
It tells too clear a story, Too cold and fiery.
No, they’re drinking seven and seven, or rum and coke,
and by morning they’ll be sober as a board.

In response to this Morning Porch post


rbarenblat said...

Oh oh oh: this is fabulous, Dale. I love the way I began reading the poem assuming it was about a marsh and realized quickly that it was (also) about a bar. So many delightful metaphors! I love this.

Dale said...

:-) What a sweetheart you are.

Dale said...

(I feel, by the way, like I'm taking the Dave Bonta & Luisa Igloria poetry correspondence course.)

Luisa Igloria said...

If mojitos are not offered, there may be a quiz :)

Dale said...

limes & mint on grocery list

Luisa Igloria said...

Dang. Forgot about that plane ticket.

Annotated Margins said...

Had they drunk tequila, perhaps they might have danced.