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.