One night at my favorite bar
I swooned over the lead singer
of a jammy-band, full of funk
just my style.
I told this fellow that he should let me sing -
that the band needed a woman's touch.
My touch would do him some good.
He said "To be a great artist,
one must be able to sing about anything."
He produced two quarters
and set them on the corner of the bar
in a sloppy puddle of spilt Newcastle.
I was thirsty.
"Sing about these two quarters."
I wanted to tell him to drop dead
so I could stick those quarters over his gleaming eyes
and send him straight to hell.
Instead I said nothing; a defeated fool.
For years I have contemplated that moment,
and what I could have said -
what I should have said.
Sometimes in the shower I sing about two quarters.
This is also very promising, April. I admire the focus on the odd artifact. Well done. You really ought to consider more classes in creative writing. Seems you're doing it here for all the right reasons: because you can't stop.
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