“You know how you tell a native from a tourist?” asked the damp guy not-nursing his scotch. Why do they always talk to me? I shrug my shoulders. “Tourists talk.” I shrug again, leave twenty on the bar, check the phone — finish the bourbon, find the keys, slide the ball-cap on backwards, position steel-rimmed sunglasses, hit the mirror, and leave. Tourist.
If there were other poems, they’d be HERE.