Me And My Daughter Mix Our Metaphors

She’s old enough now to buy me a drink.

We sip Blue Sapphires as a comic flogs
the room to death. His punch lines follow me
to the toilet. For some reason I can’t
fathom, a speaker next to the perfume
spray above the urinals performs
his act to porcelain silence. I hear
him cut to a song instead of his throat.

Meanwhile, my daughter fends off admirers.

I return in time to see them veer off
with tails aflame. While it’s weird to witness
her power to pull, I know what it’s like
to crash and burn, to die on stage, under
the spotlight of a girl’s disdain. Her glass
is empty. Fancy another? I swirl
the melted ice in mine. No thanks, I say.
I’m a lightweight these days. The comic fucks
off to scant applause, which the DJ drowns
with a lukewarm fondue of old school grooves.

She eyes the empty dance floor as a hawk
surveys the meadow for mice. All I want
is a dignified exit, but we mix
our metaphors and buy kebabs instead:

slices of skewered meat forever spin.