red neon
sputters, flashes
Jose's Cantina
on the brim
of an ancient fedora
cocked defiantly...
a precise angle
keeping one eye secret...
a disheveled old man
mumbles
to his salt shaker.
I like this place,
mosey on in
sidle up on the barstool...
the amigo two seats down
recites Shakespeare's sonnets
in pidgin English
to a hushed crowd
of pig farmers....
the bartender grimaces
as the Tijuana Sun Dogs
crush the Mighty Texaca Mud Hens
in extra innings,
he cleans shot glasses
with a filthy red bandanna.
When I order cerveza
the juke box stops
Los Lonely Boys in mid-lyric...
conversation ceases,
you could hear a taco drop.
I realize my error,
order a shot of Tequila
and I'm joined in a flash
of dripping gold
by the lovely Juanita Chiquita,
The Chihuahua Coquette.
My final memory
is watching Juanita
doing a spicy hat dance
with this part in
and that part out
as I sipped the warm agave...
Later, I catch myself humming
Hotel California, unsure
of what had happened,
but satisfied.
