Godzilla walks into a bar.
He’s much smaller
than you’d expect, really.
Scaly, dark, and haggard.
He’s been sleeping it off
for centuries, all that rage,
dust and ashes washed out
of the cracks in his suit
by the surging Pacific.
He’s graceful, surprisingly
so. Swanlike, even.
He will not look at you.
When he sits, his forearms pool
on the bar like crayons in the sun.
His belly is a flat tire
collapsing into his crotch
and whatever may be there
is hidden. He’ll order
something tropical, all rum
and fruit and fire,
incinerate the paper umbrella
with a tiny burst
that could have been a laugh.
He swivels his head
to watch it burn, left,
right, then pokes its charred
skeleton down into the tumbler
and gives it a feeble stir
with stubbed fingers. One dark claw
etches delicate architecture
into the condensation on the glass.
And when he turns, half-smiles
at you, at last you understand
love at first sight.