The dive down the street’s caged road sign reads
TRAD TIONAL NITE. The blue building’s
paint is well into peeling season
yet, it’s turning green, compliments of
north winds and the bog across the byway.
A sagging deck hangs off the building
umbrellas peek past pesto-hued lattice
the whole scene provokes an internal
inquiry of inspectors’ credentials.
I hear the night in question features
fiddling, discount draught, fried fish dinners—
but someone’s misinformed—I’m sure it means
shouts after shooting McGillicuddy's,
sighs over pool shots, ogling the waitress,
getting handsy, getting cut-off,
spitting at the bar man, driving home drunk,
a woman with a headache dabbing
concealer on purple orbitals, then
he’ll claim amnesia, peck her, blame the booze
she’ll fetch him breakfast, Advil, and G2.
Joe Couture is a writer living in rural Nova Scotia. He writes for his health. If you want to connect with him, try here: @rjcouture.bsky.social
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