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Consider the margarita glass:

among the hundreds of cups it stands

like the four-eyed geek you were ten years ago

in the headlights of a high school kegger.

It has none of the weight of a beer glass

nor its fundamental thick-sided dishonesty.

It has not the whiskey glass’ dart-like precision and heft.

With its rim dipped in salt it is the transparent mouth

of a bottom-feeding fish in a chemical drainage pond. Yet

filled, it takes on the air of a quick, remorseless romance.

There are those who insist this glass belongs south.

Probably not. It’s comfortable in my hand right here

in Chi-Chi’s, surrounded by professional wrestling,

St. Patrick’s Day mobiles that don’t move,

this inexcusable bar on Monday afternoon, my car dead,

the check bad, love four hundred miles east of here.