Robinson's Friends Take Him to a Western-Themed Bar
though he's come from afar not to be near the West.
The marquee horse jumps the neon fence
& saddle-shaped barstools line the natural-stone bar.
Robinson addles his head with whiskey.
Jack Delaney's Steak House is lousy with horses—horses, horses, everywhere horses.
Everyone looks risky when the lights are so red.
The sign on the men's room door says: Colts—Geldings—Studs.
Which one is Robinson?
A wild night out, a wild night to be wild.
Robinson's friends are high mild questioners
& he listens to their non sequiturs, their sine qua whatevers:
Why do you always want to fuck when you're drinking?
& In vino veritas
& That's a big knife & those girls are really drunk.
He could be home with his Smith Corona.
Instead, he's drinking a Smith & Wesson.
The nags on the walls seem to nag in his ears:
It'll be a bad night unless you call it a day.
Remember, when you fall, you never fall halfway.
Something's being learned here, but not a lesson.
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