Gamey Altitude

This dining room is mouse bin dusty.
The staff’s a bunch of old egg-eyed buffoons
with yellow heads and chalk hands.
What would it take to get a glass of water in this dump?

I signal one of the geezers
and persuade him to pour me some.

When it comes out, instead of ice
there’s a couple teeth clinking
around in there.
Not human teeth—more like the molars of a tiger,
an ocelot, or some other of the large cat
family.

Of course, I’m none too happy. I curse the waiter
and his elderly mind. In response, he points at a nearby table.

At it, there is a sitting man. A traveling salesman, I’m told,
with rotted rubber shoes and sewn shut eyes. He’s deaf
the geezer tells me, and hands me a card.

“See you in the afterlife,” it says.