The Wild Onion
The dark wood bar was dimly lit
The fireplace crackled with heat
White Christmas lights peeked
through garland draped around the room
The long-haired musician wore a brace for carpel tunnel
on his fret hand and would occasionally stop
his rendition of Neil Young
or The Beatles or Pink Floyd
and shake his hand out
He drank Jamison with a Coors chaser
She sat at the bar in a black wool jacket
A brown scarf protected her neck
and warmed her burgeoning words
She wore brown leather gloves
Each finger adorned
with gold rings of various sizes
And she spoke of rodents
and a study in the sixties where the mice
were given a utopia
They were safe and fed
but eventually they all died
They completed the study twenty-five times, she said
and they all died out every time
I looked at her not sure what to say
What do you think it means? she asked
I’m not sure, I said
Don’t you think that’s crazy? she asked
Yes, I said
Almost as crazy as sitting in front of a fireplace
with a coat and scarf on
and wearing rings outside of your gloves, I thought
but didn’t say anything
Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last few decades in the Chicago area. www.jasonfisk.com
