By: Kris Price
I sip my pilsner looking up at the glistening golden cockatoo and parrot.
Stoic just like my beer on the tattered oak.
How did they come up with the name Top Hat?
The rings now evaporated under my beer just
like smudged ink fading around Kittredge.
As I peer outside, this beat-up two-door scrap Volvo pulls up,
Dried up as dead bone cartilage on a human body.
No one showed up in Top Hats,
just young hipsters,
and old dogs,
Fretting their wings,
showing up yearning for the reading.
William Kittredge sits across the bar, everyone heeding to him
as he booms brilliance from his short story.
The Melvins start to play with every tempo in complete unison
With the words that fly off Kittredge’s closing remarks.
I wait in line to enter his circle, like a little boy waiting for his communion.
After, I turn back to my depleted glass, I put on my Top Hat
And leave like one of Plato’s understudies.