NPM 27

Everything in this poem is true. That doesn't happen often in my poems. The end is a cop-out, I realize, but I'm getting lax about making points lately. Sometimes I prefer jokes.


El Zarape

My family frequented a dirty little
restaurant with the best enchiladas
and the world's largest collection
of vintage beer cans, lining every
available wall in glass cases. Most
of the beers had been discontinued,
and I often pondered the significance
of these empty cans - some with tab
still lovingly preserved (presumably
emptied from the bottom of the can).
Did the drinker save them out
of admiration for the design aesthetic
of the can label, with their often brilliant
conflagrations of primaries and gold,
silver and bronze metallics, or as a means
of remembering the drink itself,
or as an ironic gesture, knowing full
well that whether "saved" or not,
the cans would likely outlast the consumers
of their contents. I came to the conclusion,
after many meals of careful thought,
that they really just needed something
to hang on the walls. They were pretty dirty.


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