Hoods up, all around, means men’s hands
are busy doing my kind of time. The beat
of feet to boards, the moment of silence
before the guitar slips sideways, chords
to the floor. She is the harpy of this
thing I’m singing, her voice screaming
all my low notes. The tempo’s all right
Woman’s got a guitar and a tattoo of
her life on her leathers. Man’s got a
smoke and a sense of himself that
keeps the drunk down. A quarter note
on the bartop spins its way to clatter.
There’s someone drinking the stream
of me in huge gulps, foaming at the mouth.
His presence strikes the wrong chord, makes
my keyboard finger itch. It’s beautiful the way
the hush rises with the crowd, chokes out the
bloom of blood with a dearth of drums.
Back of the Envelope
Image taken with iPhone in the car.
Words written at Chocolati Cafe.
Ears On busses, people, something low and jazzy.
Time Taken Five minutes.
Brain On margaritas.