The Robin Hood sign— By Chuka Susan Chesney

a neon man in tights,

shoots an arrow from his

argon bow, but her family 

never frequents smoke-filled bars,

so they never step inside,

but her boyfriend’s family does.

He tells her Sunday mornings

while her family drives to church,

his orders brunch at the Robin Hood,

dark booths with no windows,

Steak and Kidney Pie

or Toad in the Hole 

with a Moscow Mule.

A line of barstools,

old drunks lounging there, 

slurping Old Granddad,

peanut shells on their lapels.

His grandma likes the place—

they put liquor in her drink,

she relishes a Gimlet 

with her deviled eggs.

Eventually the girlfriend’s father caves,

reserves a corner table at The Castaway 

with virgin whirlpools

under Japanese umbrellas and

her grandpa’s favorite lunch

is Hawaiian Chicken Salad

with a highball tumbler 

of Kiwi Lemonade.

The saloon can’t be seen

from the Ukulele Room.

It’s round the corner

in a Pall Mall gloom

next to the grotto

and Wahine restroom.

The waiter brings her dad

a stem glass of champagne

he stabs the floating peaches 

with his escargot fork, 

ignores what remains in teetotaler bliss.

The waiter ambles by, 

refills bubbly to the brim.

One Saturday they glance

across the Bali Hai Room,

see her boyfriend’s family there:

father, mother, grandmother,

each with a cocktail

and cocktail napkin—

Gin Tonic, Scotch, and

and a Dirty Martini.

Her boyfriend holds a Coke

plumped with razzle-dazzle cherries.

The parents won’t be friends

they have each mislaid their grins—

a poisoned arrow

corkscrews their uncertainty.

Chuka Susan Chesney is an artist and a poet. Her poems, art, and/or flash fiction have been published in Peacock Journal, Inklette, New England Review, Compose, Picaroon, and Lummox. Chesney’s paintings and collages have been in exhibitions and galleries across the United States.