We sit, brittle,
In the Spotted Cat and watch
the bat, inflatable and radiant
green, "Coors" scrawled
darkly across, as it is passed
hand to hand down the bar.
Each stool-sitter takes
a turn swinging, dealing
drubbings and judgement.
Drunken tyrants beknighting
the bar-keep, striking
tipless tourists with
despotic pops.

Originally published on my website at http://www.blacksundae.net/poetry/bat.html.