The bartender has his back turned to me
The faded initial tattooed behind his ear
His knuckles are knit together on top of his head
The people on the television are bleeding
One from his nose
One from his hand
So they retreat to their corners
And the television switches to a commercial for a car
I wonder if some executive somewhere imagined the bartender
And me
And the girls at the end of the bar laughing
Or did he make this commercial for someone someplace else?
The wet streets
The girl in the passenger seat
Smooth faces like the leather interior
Feel so strange after the blood
And the bright lights
With the reggaeton playing from the kitchen
And the press of my knee against the wood of the bar
I want to demand an apology
From the car in the ad
I imagine some sort of revolution
Where we all stand on our stools
And say no more car ads here tonight
Only blood and reggaeton
I guess a commercial for a hamburger is okay too
And the executive hangs his head
And we cry:
We do not want you here tonight!
Depart!
