Newcastles at the Red Hat, Bowdoin Square,

or Stella Artois if the Newk's all out:

December's blizzard and mid-August drought

get handled the same way: just add more beer.

Winner of the gold (unquestionably!)

for best barkeep: Acadia from Eastie.

Bustling to work each day through subway-traffic,

she spits out language beautifully graphic.

A poet with an overstuffed book-bag

pulls up a stool as Sirius plays the Clash.

The chit-chat sometimes crackles, sometimes drags

with this mixologist, adept and brash.

Martini? Twist? She’ll glance at the vermouth.

“It’s a messed-up world out there, I tell ya.” “Truth.”

*

ESPN’s mute on the big flat-screen.

A jukebox gives us Bowie, Culture Club.

These old-school tunes instill something akin

to anaesthetic bliss in this dark pub.

More than a feeling. Life’s sharp edges blunted,

senses dulled by the third, the fourth, the fifth.

Might the Queen of the Hat have undercounted

the pints that have gone past this pair of lips?

Hard-hats, undergrads, and State House suits gather

to pause from drudgery where there’s no sign

of mellow nor of harsh New England weather.

Acadia listens to every honest lie

with a brassy laugh. Some wine-emboldened guy

shouts, “Love you!” She lobs back: “Yeah, get in line.”