It’s right in the middle of town
Sports on the TV and
No attractive women anywhere,
So I think,
If ever there were a time
For getting down to brass tacks,
This would be it.
I order something very plebian,
A pint of Coors Light,
Tip well and sit there watching the Houston Rockets,
Getting a five-second death glare from a black dude
For reasons still unknown to yours truly.
Time passes over and
I’m pretty much rooting for everyone,
With a couple questions in mind
(Let’s just say it’s the type of bar where the tender cares that you’re looking for a digital convertor)
But mostly not looking at anyone.
The music seems pretty good,
Like a punk/emo version of Jawbox
So I remark to the main tender,
“This is pretty good music.”
He agrees and says,
“It’s his,”
Motioning to an overweight cook
With a beard and a Bone Thugs hat on.
I nod at him and
All of a sudden I’m back in my hometown
In mind, body and spirit,
As I’m privy to this sort of mystical, expressionless
Stare, on the part of the cook,
With no “Thank you,”
No mention of who the band is and no
Frivolity at the tender’s remark that
“He’s eccentric.”
He’s just the eccentric dude in the Bone Thugs hat,
To this day, I did
Nothing to dethrone him but
Stand a little bit miffed at the security of his ego and quite frankly
Suspect of the level of satisfaction proviso in such things.