I ordered at the ink-stained bar.
The proprietor stood and flexed his arm
Where a blue tattoo danced with a scar.
He took a bottle from the rack
And fitted it below the pump,
Then staining at the wooden tap
He drew forth ooze from some sunken sump.
With the bottle brim-full of night
He wiped the tap and stoppered a cork.
I slid my coins across the bar
And he turned his back, no need to talk.
I stowed that precious onyx
And strode off to my desk at home
Where I dipped my nib in darkness
And scratched out this poem.
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