Smash

I lurk on the left at a bar vibrating

(the beat-box is loud alright):

my drink is drained, throat like a campfire

with a barmaid busy on the right

 

but, in between, an invisible force-field

is clamped in a column to the bar

unseen, unstable because, as she approaches,

the waitress fades away.

 

I burn and blether inside a bubble

when she lurches back to the light:

I swear she desires to slop me a glassful

but the obstacle won’t let her loose.

 

The band is booming, the funk is fierce,

I sizzle in personal space

unbeknown because of a barrier

of tension that pushes her back.

 

I shake and shout and waggle my wallet

but the barmaid won’t force through the fence

when up bowls a boy with a smile like a sunset

and smashes resistance, busts up the ban

 

on the Smashed.