Page 52 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #11

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The Saturday Shift
I’m trying to read a Jonathan Franzen article, his opinion of culture and despair.
Bottom line is, he says,
we just don’t read enough.
There are two old ladies in this afternoon with frazzled, dried-apricot hair.
They’re ordering double vodkas,
with homeopathic splashes of lemonade.
I’m having a glass of red,
and chain smoking.
It’s a warm September afternoon
but I bet old Reg
would have wanted
that fire burning brightly.
He’d insist on more coal and more shush, raising his long bony finger to his thin grey lips blue with wine and kissing death.
Reg used to have pints of light and bitter, but after that visit to the doctor’s,
large gin and tonics with plenty of ice. They can keep things on ice, you know, until they find a cure...
Kate says we are selling death, tobacco and booze, she says, we’re as bad as any crack dealer, what’s the difference, she says,
we all do it to ourselves, don’t we?
The funeral on Friday,
sausage rolls on a plate,
the regulars wear suits and ties,
us girls behind the bar in black and we all raise a glass,
we served him his last drinks, because you cannot catch last orders transdermally,
and if you only had so much time