J. Scott Shields

Sitting in an Oxford pub on a Sunday afternoon,
I sip my pint and watch the American couple
Saunter up to the bar and scan the generous array of
Local libations on tap. After a brief pause,
The husband slings his arm around his wife’s shoulder
And in a hearty voice orders up a familiar old standby:
Budweiser, the King of Beers.

No doubt that thin industrial swill has graced
A lifetime’s worth of ball games and barbeques for this fellow,
Just as it once filled my own parents’ refrigerator--adding a
Spark to my father’s eye and a simmering rage to my mother’s.
Yet here, amid these ancient walls and towering spires,
The blue and red script on the iconic white label is soundly
Usurped by the native porters and ales, and my heart echoes
The publican’s scorn as he hands the couple their bottles, unopened,
Before walking away to pull another patron’s pint.