By Kira Cordova
Bone on glass makes an unsavory clink,
like like a splinter in a lake-top ice rink
or the creak when a gila monster blinks.
It tends to make the living overthink
when I rib-cage up to the bar and wink,
so I tend to stay in, but this dim pink
place seems addressed to me in neon ink.
Could it be? Somewhere I can get a drink!