Bank Holiday Shenanigans

It’s the Sunday afternoon of the Jubilee weekend
I’m behind the bar polishing the same glass
The Dalai Lama walks in holding a gun to his head
He stops in the middle of the bar, the celebrations on the TV going past
He nods at the TV and walks to the bar
And sits down. “Usual please, barman.” He doesn’t remove
The gun from his head. Sylvia looks up from the corner to check.
“No. Not yet.” She bends back down to the oven
And waits. Dalai sits nursing his drink. A gambler walks in
And stretches next to him. They make eye contact. They consider each other.
“Why not,” Dalai says. The gambler runs outside. He sets himself
On fire. A new girl is piling up empties in the back. “Another,” I shout.
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
The next two years are quiet. Only Sylvia
Checking. I polish the same glass. A professor
From the Doctorised Collective of Everything Knowable® walks in
With seventeen suits on, his eyes narrow.
He’s got sick on all his layers. Everyone ignores him.
He points at me.
“I don’t get you: that’s clean!” “Finally!” says
Dalai. “You can take a seat now, Doc.” He’s still holding his gun. I’m still polishing
The same glass. “That took a while!” from the back.
“Can I take one of your jackets for you?” from me.