Monday, April 27, 2015

April 27

Tip Spittoon

They slouch about in their black hoodies
emblazoned with the logos of their favorite watering holes
to watch the country band with the gravelly-voiced singer
everyone wants to fuck
The guitarist is decent but the songs are bland
and colorless, forgotten the moment they're over.
Everyone looks like someone I know
from someplace else. It's early and the place is filled
with families and young children:
three tiny girls link arms and jump wildly about
while a little brother stands and stares,
wanting to be included, or maybe I'm 'just projecting.
My ex and her new man are sitting at the bar
beside me, holding hands. I try to focus
on my wild boar tacos. The joint has wooden floors
and faux Victorian wallpaper. At some point
the drummer's gorgeous wife sashays around the room
holding out a brass spittoon for tips.
A bearded blob in a yellow t-shirt that reads
"Don't be a Dick" dances with a much
slimmer girl. He can barely shuffle
but her hands are all over his girth anyways.
There's a tear in my microbrew,
the spittoon of my heart is about to tip over.
My tongue is a tangled lasso.
There are tumbleweeds between my legs
and baling wire holding my sides together,
keeping  my guts from spilling out into the sawdust.

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