“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.
G Beckman 