A Little Bit More Than The Same

 

“The usual”, to Bill the bartender, my friend.

The blond at the end of the bar looked the same

as every other blond that ever sat there…

with only a different name.

Each day ran into the next, 

a familiar deck of cards.

I wasn’t hedging my bets.

I ‘been all in since being born.

The bar was a Bukowski cliche.

The patrons, true Beats, played their games.

Thrown out one night, back the next,

as if nothing had ever happened.

One night, an unusual blonde at the end of the bar,

Annie Lennox-like, a man-eater? A mystery…

of the moment…the night’s entertainment maybe.

She got into a drinking contest with a rugged

looking man. After ten minutes or so, everyone 

still conscious were enthralled. He looked to be

250, she maybe 110. 

Logic said she would have to fall.

After an hour of slamming shots, she still looked

cool as ice. The hombre was sweating, red and 

teetery and pissed off. Another half-hour 

and the brute slid off his chair, unconscious 

on the floor. Our Heroine watched him fall, 

smiled and lit a Rothmans. Without a word

she rose, turned, smiled and nodded to 

everyone, and walked, steady as a gazelle,

out of the bar…

…she gave flabbergastery a new name.

She was a little bit more than the same.