Pub Night

This is quite possibly the strangest piece I have ever written. It's inspiration comes from listening the music of Tom Waits.

But don't tell him that...

 This tattered old barstool is home

to the back end of this tired poet.

Surrounded by whiskey voices and cigarette singers

every day is thanksgiving as I enjoy

some wild turkey.

Oh, I'm happy enough to chat with you,

but if I had my druthers, I'd stay far away

from your breath that will strip paint or

make me gravely ill with the second hand

exhalation of carcinogens.

The bartender wanders over and gives me

a look that says I've had enough.

I tap the counter with two fingers, typing

out my order in staccato

 

make

        it a

             double,

barkeep.

 

An impatient lapse of time between

empty and full, a glance around the room

reveals a cloud of smoke harboring

the secrets being hidden by the drinkers.

 

The green felt on the pool table runs into

pockets which hold no balls.

The vending machines sell smokes

and protection against the nights that see

too much booze get consumed.

The jukebox is lit up like a Christmas tree,

but its voice is not heard. Instead,

a raven haired angel plays the spatula

against the strings of a pink

Fender Stratocaster

 

And the mirror behind the bar

reflects an old poet whose

words start to get slurred.

 

Stop the terrible music,

there's poetry to be read.

 

For this poet will write, even through

the haze of pollution and the

caterwauling of a bad singer.

That's the goal for this night at

the pub. To pen some thoughts,

and find the muse at the bottom

of a dirty glass.

 

Leave me alone,

you drinkers, players and

gravelly voiced singers.

The words are flowing faster

than the bottle is emptying.

 

Yep, this old barstool is

witness.

The words that are written

inspire more...and conspire with

that wily old turkey to keep me going

for the rest of the year.