Poems Archived from Dr. J's Round Table I

Bishop's Finger
for E.B., 1911-1979


My waitress approaches and asks
If I'd like anything from the bar.
Yes, please, I tell her, I'd like

A word, a good imported word
To start with-- maybe one of those
Frilly French words with too much

Head, or something German perhaps.
We don't serve words here, she says;
We haven't served those spirits here

Since 1969.  I ask her to rhyme off
What they do have. She answers:
Harp, Bass, Swan, Flowers, Fullers,

Brick Bock, and Bishop's Finger's back.
Suddenly, I'm excited as a child.
Bring me a Bishop's, I reply.

She pours the beer into a glass,
Lays it in front of me, and watches
As I reach into my pocket and fumble

For the scrabble pieces I carry around
For just such occasions.  I pick out
The I's from the others and drop them

Into the glass like Alka Seltzer
Tablets.  The waitress is convinced
That I'm strange, that something

Fishy is going on.  She's right,
Of course.  There's something
Iridescent about getting drunk

On a word, whether anyone knows it
Or not.  And it's a great word,
One of those sturdy American ones.

--- Jeremy Sharp (1998); from The Antigonish Review