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
Roberto Guzmán Hernández is a writer, translator and scientist based in Philadelphia. Poetry and other writings have appeared in physical and online publications and his first translation, Hambre Nueva/New Hunger (2023) was published by Editorial Pulpo. He is currently trying to catch up with the world at odd times.