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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE6wxDqdOV0

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                            Yukon summers - the sun hardly sets,

                            broadcasting, into the midnight air

                            with poised and perpetual

                            motionlessness.

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    Klondike, Gold Rush

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The bar chair

That I’ve chosen to plant my a*s into - 

Fertilized

With a couple’ o Keith’s - 

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Creaks,

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As I turn a shoulder to look

At a newly formed que.

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Molly’s working

And the line stretches its length,

Snaking, around plain-wooden tables

And the chipped edges of my seat.

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Summer clothes, straight teeth,

Cool auburn composure

And an air

Of haphazard attitude

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That sees every patron, grinning.

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As she levers into each tap

As though churning into butter,

I watch an empty cognac-glass

Fill with silver dollars.

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And the line shuffles, and Molly works - 

Suspenders snap, watches flash - 

And each time Molly charms a man

His money 

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   finds the glass.

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I smile, turning back to my table, and wonder

After what all that attention must feel like:

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                                Either

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                Molly finds it dehumanizing

                Or she’d happily work all night.

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