i rock back & forth
on the barstool
nervous fingers fumbling with a cigarette;
i gaze at the woman next to me,
admiring the long brown hair
that drools lazily from her scalp
over her shoulders
& spills across the back
of her tight blue dress.
i knock back a shot of whiskey
& work up the nerve
to talk to her.
excuse me, i say, tapping her shoulder,
could i buy you a drink?
she slowly turns around
& i am startled to see
she is wearing a gauzy surgical mask
the same shade as her dress.
she looks at me with bloodshot eyes,
blinks once, & tells me she will have
a rum & coke.
a panic steals over me
& i can’t think
of anything to say
as i stare dumbly at the mask.
i am a dog breeder, she tells me,
i have successfully created
a chihuahua/pit bull hybrid
that i call the chi-bull.
they have proven to be
extremely popular
with the indigenous population
of northern mexico. i have a client there
who uses them for his lucrative
dog fighting business. he claims
that my chi-bulls are the fiercest, bravest
creatures he has ever had the privilege of owning.
at this point i am spooked;
i want the conversation to end
so i order the woman a rum & coke
but the bartender is half-deaf
& the batteries in his hearing-aid
haven’t been changed since 1974.