Last Night in Rochester
Rolling Stones 1-4-5 through well-hung speakers
At the Rose & Crown. William no longer haunts
The thin aisle behind the bar. There are nights,
Oh there are nights. BrowneDog as a
Walt-Doug-Mike trio: beers. Many beers
And many happy drunken songs they cheered to.
Six long-toothed chrome handles jar to reveal
Refrigerated wine, and occasional beers for those
Rude enough to eschew pint-sized draughts.
Now Iggy Pop, then, a sputtering Greek-vacationing
Green card candidate. The new waitress stretches
Which changes the angle on her heaving breasts.
Sickly sweet cigar smoke wafts olfactorily:
Then cool air radiates off a fresh skirt,
Through the crowded bar, to push at you.
Is it the hands or face that hold it? Maybe it
Takes a certain perfume. This bird smells good.
The special tonight, like every night, is Foster’s,
But isn’t it great the way breasts, in profile
Stick proud nipples right at you? Now Gina
Arrives with a guy I haven’t seen named Mingo.
I sit on a beaten stool, attempting smiles,
Waiting for a ride from town to Dianne’s suburb.
You know how it feels to be leaving
Your home town and sitting in a now-strange
Bar? How many times has the world
Evolved while you sat quaffing a pint?
Just when will it turn your way? Or if it
Has already turned, will you notice in time?
Someone throwing darts hits a low C, and
Carlos, the young man who stands in
William’s stead, draws a Whitbread that
Rounds out your tour of British Pub Pints.
Still, the people you’ve come to meet will not
Attend. A skirt offers one last sniff, quaff, laugh.