We sit,
brittle,
In the
Spotted Cat and watch
the
bat,
inflatable and
radiant
green, "
Coors" scrawled
darkly across, as it is passed
hand to hand down the bar.
Each stool-sitter takes
a turn swinging, dealing
drubbings and
judgement.
Drunken
tyrants beknighting
the
bar-keep, striking
tipless
tourists with
despotic pops.
Originally published on my website at http://www.blacksundae.net/poetry/bat.html.