What's Sauce for the Glander

When Glander enters even the barflies hold their breath--
not in suspense but so they won't get a whiff
of yesterday's urine/semen/rotgut;
plastered in aimless greasy splotches from his chin to his shoes,
he jerks like a marionette then slithers to the nearest stool.
Bobbing his rotten apple head he mumbles out "Blue."
Takes a gulp, lets it dribble to join yesterday's brew,
swipes a sleeve across his nose dripping green stew.
Then he notices the picture pinned on the wall
of Dolly Parton and her twin friends
and he drools on the bar.
"That's eatin' stuff," he cackles and licks his dry lips,
fondles the barstool and crosses his legs.
Until a song on the jukebox spins him around
and a fragment of lost lust stabs through his brain.
"What is it, what is it, what is it to me?
Nobody, nobody, nobody but me."
Bloodshot eyes fill with blue mist--for an instant,
then Glander shrughs it off, leans forward, grunts
and breaks yesterday's wind.