The Glass Collector

Her caber of pint glasses twist and droop,
stood on each others shoulders,
a big top of ale slop
splashes her neck
as she goes to bum-to-crotch
with her shift manager.
The bar is so narrow
that the difference between assault
and gallantry
is a question of pressure.
With a magicians flush of smoke
and timing, she pulls out a rack of furnace-hot tulips
and talls for shorts,
sleight of chapped hands
as one-use glasses,
bearded with seize soixante quatre
are locked in ' Houdini style '
going under for three minutes
before huffing free, breathless and empty.