mother, your favorite tiki bar-

mother, your favorite tiki bar-

doesn’t have the same locals crowding the corner

etching the water ring deeper into worn wood

since they changed the little plastic straw

next to the slimy pinneaple triangle used as a garnish

to the paper ones everywhere these days

and wow, those really do suck

Eddie hasn’t come back since he had that fight with the new bartender

who upcharged him a quarter,

which is more than he can spare these days.

but there’s a menu now

to pick at some discarded

stale, fried thing on a platter

pretend it had a life before

think of the one this place had

keep playing with the crumbs

the drinks are a little more watered down-

that’s not really news,

the vodka is cheaper

since the building went up for sale

all tenants moved out

we’re the sole ramparts nailing the stools to the ground

so the young couple who moves in to the ground floor

will have trouble with all the holes left behind

but after all

your seat is still there,

misty glowing light from the neon,

and if you want, a halo every other night

you could’ve been a palm reader, ma’

in a tropical flower throne

a good job for the next life