A Poem Walks into a Bar

by Cuthbert Pierry

A poem walks into a bar,
sits down and starts doing shots —

Rot–gut warrior stuff: Four Roses,
Corby’s rye parrot, with muscatel chasers.

The bartender ambles over to the poem
“Why so glum, chum?” he asks.

“Because I suck!” the poem slurred
“I could use a twist!”

“Well, here you go,” replied the tapster extending
a lemon wedge poised for a squeeze.

“Not that kind of twist, you puffy cretin cullion,
A Twist! A Turn! The kind you don’t see

coming, the kind that transports an oaf like
you to a place you never expected to be.

“Like this one?” the bartender retorted, summarily
hurling the supple lush lyric to the alley.

“Well, not exactly” the poem stammered in a daze
as a belching backhoe Hog, coming along the cans,

scooped it up, chapter and verse,
the wretched rune wretching iambs

from the high lift bucket

wondering how it would ever
scrabble its way out of this one.