My middle name’s Harry, I’m a bartender,
everybody’s best friend: filmmakers,
flashlight salesmen, cabinet carpenters,
the lot. After they sip a beer at supper time
and bite into oysters and escargot
in the local bistro, they stumble out secrets
about ex-wives who stung them worse
than a mutated bee, leather love affairs
I’d defy Danielle Steele to invent,
or blackjack losses that toppled their honor
and compelled them to burn Corvettes.
What am I, a mirror on the roadside
of lonely hearts? Sporting new pinstripe
suits, they crawl my way, brood
about the boat that went up in blazes,
and think I’m mesmerized. One schmuck
named Tyler barged in at closing time,
waved with manicured fingers, and begged
me to drive him home. After I arrived
at his backyard, we leaned against the fence
and he swung at me. Fucking ingrate.
Why do I imitate them? Well, I thought
I’d charm you to serve me one last whiskey,
and invite you to a party at my bungalow.