You might think we’ve stumbled
onto hard times
here at the Blue Moon tavern.
Our neon sign doesn’t slice
through the air
like it used to.
Payroll is cut
to three, including
the mop and pail.
We require only a twenty
on the table to run a tab.
Not complaining, mind you.
The cat still gets fed,
our landlord seems
the understanding type.
Hard times everywhere, but
you’ll always be able
to get a drink on us,
so long as you can still find
a Blue Moon mug somewhere.
It shouldn’t be hard in a big city like this.
Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. She has poems and short fiction
published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Gargoyle, the late lamented Fat Damsel Review, and here in the Rye Whiskey Review.
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