Good to the Last Drop

Stopped by Pandora’s Tavern on the way home from the dump this afternoon. New sign over the bar reads: “It’s Always Mourning Somewhere!” Ordered a cup of instant Maxwell House from the bartender. “Sweetened condensed milk is a kind of metaphor,” he explained, pouring some into the cup. Sat down then at the bar to enjoy some reading, a book about poet Laura Riding. According to one who knew her: “Laura was like a sideshow barker, held out the promise of great things, marvelous things, to be seen and experienced inside the tent; and like all such performances, hers ended before a single customer entered. Her spiel carried a tone that was peremptory, overblown and meaningless, at the same time awesome and nonsensical. It was like hearing the veritable voice of God (or its plausible facsimile) in a dream caused by indigestion.” Asked the bartender what he thought. “Dreams,” he surmised, “are the unmade beds of the mind. Tonight ought to be a good night to look for glow worms.”