Ars Poetica
A stranger with bad teeth asks for one can 
only imagine what.  Nobody recognizes

his guttural tongue.  Shaking his head, the bar-
keep polishes a tumbler.  The stranger babbles 

insistently louder.  Talk of politics 
quiets at a table of locals.  Talk 

is useless.  Tearing his rumpled shirt, the man 
bares a map tattooed to his chest, thumps 

his fist against a place unknown 
miles away.  The ceiling fan creaks.  A fly			

lights on the globe, casting a monstrous
shadow.