the old bar

you remember
the old haunts
in the city,
before the city
went out
into the strip
malls, replicating
their store fronts
with unlimited
parking.
bartenders knew
you, knew your
drink, a little
bit about your
life and habits,
enough
to strike up
a small conversation
that purposely
went nowhere.
now, the mixologists
are young
and unwrinkled,
they couldn't break
up a wheat cracker
let alone a bar fight.
they are just pups out
of college.
you need to shout
and wave
to get their
attention. they are
in the lab
behind the bar
concentrating on
their spoon and strainers
with precise
measurements. they
have no game, no
chit chat, no bar
rag to wipe
the mahogany wood
where you rest
your elbows
and stare at a euro
fusion menu.
it's tuna samplers,
salmon bites,
spinach and artichoke
dip. where the hell
are the onion rings?
where is the woman
not staring at her phone,
but sipping
on a manhattan,
leaning over to ask
you for a light?