Les Pugilist Poem by nathan martin

there is this bar i went to once up north
it is called les pugilist.

it is a canadian dive bar somewhere
in the western province of quebec.

the parking lot is filled with large trucks
wandering in like steel framed geese.
thier drivers touch down awkwardly on
cracked vinyl barstools.

they eat truffels and curse!
waterboarding themselves with pitchers
of labbat blue and listening to french versions
of willie nelsons pancho and lefty.

at times thier vision blures and the criss
cross patterns of thier matching flannels
enrage each other.

the only solice they have is a cigerrette
machine over by the window that does
not vend cigerrettes but tickets to heaven
each seperatly blessed by the pope.