I get off on South Bridge
next to the Royal Mile, surf down
a slick cobblestone wave of anticipation
to the bottom of the Cowgate and step
into Bannermans, the pub just below
the most haunted pub in Edinburgh,
where I work. Where I learned
first how to say burgh, butta
like a New Yorker
says butter, only
ya' winnin' t'day?
Oh, aye, feelin' fit, pal.
I step around behind the bar
and smell smoke sitting on stools
like the fog sitting on the tracks under
the bridges, and I pump the cask
three times and grab a pint
before he says 'Nother
point 'a eight-ay doll.
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