A Night at the Bog Bar

[Inspired by a sunset over a bog in the upper peninsula of Michigan in June]

The sky slowly dims to purple
As the patrons hop in
For another happy hour at the Bog Bar.

It’s an open-air affair, of course,
The better to watch the celestial strippers
Unwind their cloudy lingerie,
And toss it off to the setting sun god.

He seems pleased with the results
And slowly swirls their lavender bodies
Toward his twilight abode.

But when the sun god goes down,
The volume at the bar goes up.
The black water begins to glisten with stars
And the latest one-liners can soon be heard.

After a couple of marsh gas beers,
The frog princes gather courage to bellow
To that sleek amphibian missy at the bar’s end,
But she just gives them a bulbous glare.

Meanwhile, a trout sidles up to the bar,
Orders some pussy-willow champagne,
And then blows a few bubbles toward
The young school-girls in a nearby tide pool.

The birds ruffle their feathers
And look down their noses at the proceedings.
They usually fly off to join the sun god’s party.
He has better beverages anyway.

The last to arrive, of course, are the snapping turtles.
The bass vibration of their shells lends a bit of class
To the place, along with their taste for reed-whiskey.

As the darkness spreads up from the black water,
The volume goes up, and a cacophony of sound
Reaches even to the mysterious marsh lights on the shore.

There, strange two-legged creatures cradle Bud bottles
And croak their one-liners to the local chicks,
Who roll their eyes and order another glass of wine,
Before they, too, move on to the sun god’s party.

He has better beverages anyway.
And a very warm embrace, indeed.

Lady Joanne
6/27/04