Ode to a Night-Cocktail

On my last night in town
I went to 
“Voice of Fire-Water” whiskey bar
supposedly the best bar around,
although for me it was marred
by a persistent memory of places
that are nothing like it.
It's an expensive bar,
with art on every wall
that no one understands
and few people feel bothered to learn about.
I took a chair in the corner
at a table out of Dali's imagination
that somehow seemed right at home.
The waitress sauntered over
and shot me a smile under the blue bar light.
I ordered a Group Of Seven & Seven,
and sat back to try and enjoy myself again.
 
The bar was busy,
full of beautiful losers enjoying art history;
a welcome change
from the lack of a crowd at
“Let Us Compare Mixologies”
over on Fifth and Vermouth,
my regular Friday night dive.
Sure, there they played Waits and Cohen,
but I would always be bothered 
by the presence of a fedora
atop a man
drunk on too many Tom Collins
and spouting original verse
he calls an Ode to a Night-Cocktail.
Keats would be ashamed,
but with a Brandy Alexander Pope
I can fake my way by.
Ah, such is the life,
such is life.

© Chris Johnson