A Glass Of Beer

I like a head on my beer

unlike  yuppies (Gawd, they

must be in their fifties by now)

or prissy Asians who think they

are doing the farang a favor by

carefully pouring down the side of

a tilted glass.  No, I like to see

a white head rise up at

elevator-speed.

I like a head on my beer.

 

I like to see the bubbles below  

the thick white head fall straight

up in the amber brew, too, like

snow on a quiet upside down,

windless night.

  

I like a head on my beer.

And if the head overshoots

the rim, I want a barkeep like

Jackie Gleason to swipe it off

with a tongue depressor

as light as pure powder

or . . . if It’s late at night and

conversation has gone south

to simply stick his sausage-sized

finger through the foam to stop

the inexorable rise and say:

You got that right, Pal.

I like a head on my beer.

FG  2/14/2015

While my friends in New England are contemplating yet another major snow storm, I am relegated to finding the meaning of life in yet another glass of ice-col beer.  Sigh.