Poetry of Issue #7        Page 57

IN MY NEXT LIFE: A FANTASY

That hulking bouncer in the horrid bar?
As Flaubert might say, C’est moi!

Once or twice a night I grab
some noisy little troublemaker

as if he were a wise-mouthed marionette,
run him headlong out the door,

and slam him on the frozen ground
beside somebody’s rust-scarred car.

Then I stride right back inside,
pound down a beer, and strut around,

purposeful, businesslike,
my mouth shut tight,

with just the slightest hint
of an exasperated smile.

And everyone tout de suite becomes
a whole lot more well-mannered for a while.

  George J. Searles