Country Bar Martini
By Don Iannone
Strange town, strange bar.
Long day, long face.
Filled room, no seats, I'm shot.
Vodka martini in hand, relief in sight.
Country music, not my style...
but this is rural Pennsylvania,
and I'm a city slicker from Cleveland.
Nasty smell, burned popcorn.
Fat man, cigar, saddle shoes.
Retake...saddle shoes, fat man?
No way...not in a country bar
out here in the sticks!
Nasty smell, not popcorn...who knows what.
Chug-a-lug, martini glass empty.
Cheeks warm, head numbs.
Even this dingy place begins to look better.
Bar maid with big teased red hair pushes
drinks across the bar to eager customers,
working on leaving reality.
The idea for this poem pops into my head.
Time to blow this joint...
no cotillion likely here tonight.