The Bar Bull Fighter
In the pub, at the bar
Men gather to share strut stories,
Playing with pocketed loose change
Or leaning with elbow assertion
In front of the pumps.
Each waits for The Pause,
Rehearsing the tale to top
The last, only half hearing
The current yarn
In the jostling queue.
We sit and eat our meal.
In dropping my eaves,
Attending the task
Of my salad leaves.
“And like, we didn’ know the towne
But he like, went ‘This Way! That Way!’
An’ we ended up in the roughest part there.
In some crazy wild Irish Pub!”
A gauntlet thrown in the swig of beer,
That ends the story. No-one responds to content,
But the older man, without reassurance of forearms
On the bar begins:
“Have you ever kissed the Blarney Stone?”
Direct question demands muttered response.
Gratified to be alone in his boast, he elaborates:
“Well, you gotta let this chap hold on to yer ankles.
Massive drop. Upside down, you kiss the stone!
I got a certificate to prove it!”
And another reward follows the fable:
The booted woman proves attention,
Despite herself, interest asking:
“What’s it like?”
Now he has credit for the dramatic pause
And the delaying sup of pint:
“Ha! I nearly shat meeself!”
Even the men bow to the bullfighter
And they all laugh in chorus.
I chew my food quietly
In the table behind
And my wilting dressed salad
Smiles along with me.