28. The Bar Bullfighter

The Bar Bull Fighter

In the pub, at the bar

Men gather to share strut stories,

Playing with pocketed loose change

Or leaning with elbow assertion

In front of the pumps.

Each waits for The Pause,

Rehearsing the tale to top

The last, only half hearing

The current yarn

In the jostling queue.

We sit and eat our meal.

Chewing hides

Delightful pleasure

In dropping my eaves,

Attending the task

Of my salad leaves.

“And like, we didn’ know the towne

But he like, went ‘This Way! That Way!’

An’ we ended up in the roughest part there.

In some crazy wild Irish Pub!”

A gauntlet thrown in the swig of beer,

That ends the story. No-one responds to content,

But the older man, without reassurance of forearms

On the bar begins:

“Have you ever kissed the Blarney Stone?”

Direct question demands muttered response.

Gratified to be alone in his boast, he elaborates:

“Well, you gotta let this chap hold on to yer ankles.

Massive drop. Upside down, you kiss the stone!

I got a certificate to prove it!”

And another reward follows the fable:

The booted woman proves attention,

Despite herself, interest asking:

“What’s it like?”

Now he has credit for the dramatic pause

And the delaying sup of pint:

“Ha! I nearly shat meeself!”

Even the men bow to the bullfighter

And they all laugh in chorus.

I chew my food quietly

In the table behind

And my wilting dressed salad

Smiles along with me.