Stop looking at me
you, next to me
and you, next to me on the other side
I am trying to write this poem
and I can feel you
through your endless unstructured babble at the television
the TELEVISION, for fuck’s sake…
I know you’re peeking,
curious about this dirty hobo
drinking beer too quietly
writing, buried in the book
in the middle of a crowded bar on football Sunday
FOOTBALL Sunday!!
I know what you must be thinking,
you, drinking a little too much,
probably with a few pills in you
legal or not:
I’m an oddity, recalcitrant.
Suspicion always comes first
then paranoia
Is This Guy For Real
becomes
What Is He Writing
becomes
Why Is He Writing
becomes
Stop Staring And Writing Down Everything I Say And Do!!!
I finally look up
and everyone turns away
whoosh
the bartender pretends she’s working
the drunks pretend to watch the game
the rats pretend to be cleaning
and here, all I have been trying to do
is write a poem…
I’ll try again after another beer
- af
(written with pen on paper)
Another beer is always a good alternative.
I’m drinking now, so here’s my poem…but don’t look…it may not be worth it.
“My old mom, she’s no miser,
all she buys, is old Budweiser.”
Actually she is drinking Miller Lite these days, so I should gift her this poem even though I know she would prefer a beer.
I was in Skagit county a few weeks back and did nothing BUT drink beer. It was delicious. My next one will be toasted to Mom!