Beer Garden Rag

Summer, this hour,

how beauty harangues—

trellis of trumpet

vines, under it, two

brothers drinking Bud

Light, the bottles of

which glint in late

light like anchovies

flitting by goggles

fogging now, just as

the huffing guide-dog

breathes on his own

ugly mug in the shoe

store’s mirror and makes

it disappear, which

must feel weird, like

the first time leaving

your therapist’s, heat

thumping the meek

pedestrian backs, yours,

the poor Chick-fil-

A guy in thermal cow-

suit, Eat Mor Chikin—

pathos, pathos!—you

want a stop-bath to

freeze: 1) the one

brother’s pre-sneeze

stupefaction, 2) the

other’s laughter

shook-out like a big

black trash bag, 3)

the waiter’s Evan

Dando hair, by dint

of heaven, calling up

every beaut teenager

you ever hoped to be,

as if surfacing after

long-searching for

serious treasure at

the grubby bottom

of the public pool, the

second before your

good lung bursts.