Amarillo Bay — Poetry

Each bottle, each glass has its perfect location
in his world and anything askew must be returned
promptly to what he views as harmony, the innards
of a Swiss watch, the beauty of a well-run bar.

Because he has personally organized this world
around him, he needs no eyes. The blueprint is
in his blood and he wastes not a single movement
as he pours and stirs, pours and stirs, with the verve
and nimble slickness of a master illusionist.

When he has no drink to make, he tidies and restores,
cleans and polishes – a bottle, a glass, a coffee cup,
an ashtray to empty and clean. A slow moment
and he glides away from perfect order of his bar

To straighten bar stools, or wipe down a table.
We introduce chaos, he brings back order.