The Virtual Arms
by Hurl Ague
I walked into this smoky pub because
I’ve wandered the intangibles all night.
I’ve heard what this or that one thinks and does
in disembodiment, but all I want’s a fight.
So here where thoughts are low and doors are lower,
where strangers’ eyes look right down at the street
or hide in darkened doors from which to glower,
I’ve come to look for homonyms to meet
in this dark tavern’s fog of folk and ale.
Wading a sea of conversations’ hum
I order from the landlord and regale
him with my purpose. All good hosts play dumb
and don’t encourage fisticuffs or fear.
It’s just a pub, we’re all here for the beer.