'Bel Canto my
vast, gourd-like bosoms!'
mutters the Valkyrie,
backhanding pretzel crumbs
from her wet moustache.
She has a face like thunder.
On the glitching TV behind the bar,
a chorus line of animatronic pigs
is singing Rogers and Hammerstein numbers
on a set built to resemble an Atlantic cruise liner.
'Pigs,' she spits. 'The lot of them.'
She glares at the bartender,
a slight man with a wet moustache
like a Sharpie prank.
He pulls her another beer, glancing nervously
at the shelfloads of intact glassware.