The Urban Elf

The wind freezes foxes
on a snow fondled green
big men pant fog
the blinking box
shows us the scene
yet we talk about mages
elves and their kin
waiting
for the striped one
to signal we can
come in.
Dances without dance floors
syncopated chess
and poison control
fielding advances and quips
exchanging glances
and bitch-slapping
those who transgress
the moment.
Snow flies outside
the whiskey in
oh, the happy futility
in the glow
of the bartender’s grin.