I am barefoot in a bar wearing gray flannel pajamas.  The lighting is poor
& I can’t make out anything on the laminated menu
covered in blood. I can’t locate hand sanitizer,
or my Kate Spade crossbody bag, or my iPhone.
There is no bartender.
I decide this is now a nightmare. 
I scan the room to confirm my suspicion,
but I can’t get anything out of the faceless couple
next to me. I note they have not been served
and their fists are blue & they are clutching Ginsu knives
 & they have no forks & they have dropped
their napkins on the dirt floor. They are not moving,
or breathing-- just dripping & a dirty
martini would be nice right now & I hope someone turns
on the jukebox-- but I am everyone & what bar still has a jukebox?
Wooden ducks line the mirrored shelves instead of spirits
 I want to shoot them, but I have no gun.
& I am annoyed that this is going nowhere.

Thankfully a man appears in a corner.
Maybe he will save this plot.
A spotlight sputters to life & reveals
Freddy Krueger jeering under his brown fedora.
He cockily holds his metal-clawed glove
under his burnt-to-a-crisp chin & this pisses me off
because this is all my fucking subconscious could muster tonight.
& he says, I love soul food, too
& this too makes my blood bubble
because this tacky line is not mine
& a three-foot galvanized pipe falls
from the ceiling into my outstretched palms
& I unstick myself from the stool & skewer him
through his red & green striped sweater & he dies
on the first try with no hope of resurrection--or a sequel. 
There is no blood. Maybe he didn’t have any left to offer.
& I see a waiter dozing against a white wall
holding on to a tray of dishes.

Victoria Nordlund's poetry collection Wine-Dark Sea was published by Main Street Rag in June 2020. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize Nominee, whose work has appeared in PANK Magazine, Rust+Moth, Chestnut Review, Pidgeonholes, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Visit her at VictoriaNordlund.com