The Owl Tree
Bobby’s either drunk or pouring drinks behind the bar, blending another martini, keeping an eye on Jack and Bill, extending an invitation to go upstairs. Bobby prefers to watch, like the owls that clutter every wall. Owl clocks, owl mirrors. Drunk as an owl, the saying’s lost. For now, he’s half in love with James, the waiter who serves with schooled formality, props Bobby into place, and keeps the damn hookers on the street.