Rotarians

I am not that someone
who revels in hate

Her look at the bar
left me cold-eye weighed

Poor Phil-the-farmer
could not match my smile

as Val took her drink
leaving her stare to scythe

Those Witches of Newick
have stirred their dark brew –

they sweat its rank scent –
a mephitic perfume

I settled with my pint
in the turned barrel seat –

my lonely remove
was my greeting defeat


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