i am back in
the corner at pete's again,
three shots deep and three beers warm
on another friday night; the bright census
of the aquarium circles slowly to the same bored
patterns while one flat and whiskered shape
prowls around the chest of gold that bubbles
open and shut on the garish floor.
joe and the other
regulars drink & smoke & touch
with seven days greater history,
seven more days of weather and drama
to mawk and embellish below
the fumarole of smoke pressed
against the ceiling by wavering columns rising
from each hand, replenished by long
philosophic exhalations, stirred periodically
by emphatic or humorous expulsions of breath
and lung, the warm word fuck tosses
above the choppy surf of conversation
like intimate flotsam. nothing is on show
but the liquor puffed shell of too many troubles,
too little money, too still a god
the band warps
flat on every tune
as they plod with meagre energy from '57-'62 and back.
a woman shouts for 'great balls of fire',
fields and foils the double entawdry ripostes;
but the renegades respond in spirited fashion
and she claps and coughs and waves her way to the last
riff. thank you jerry lee for that gold doubloon.
thank you pete for opening
your hearth and door to my transient heart.
3 december 1999 |
