Photo by Glenn Bowie
Worm
Midday, maybe a dozen down
from my usual spot
where the old bar curves
this tall loud guy
huge bright false teeth
biggest I ever seen
Gets up swinging a bottle
taking his time down the line
of hunkered drunks—
grinning, pouring.
Tequila! somebody sputters.
They drink,
a few salute him.
Floppy, off-kilter
his straw cowboy hats
seen better days.
Cigarette smoke encapsulates
the bar in a gray fog.
Free booze perks up the mood.
By the time he gets to me
the bottle is depleted
but for a trickle.
His voice gone sombre
big teeth in hiding
He whispers There's still the worm.
Waving the bottle in my face I panic.
Shaking it again, he’s saying: This here is Mezcal, Missy.
That down there what you see at the bottom is holy.
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