I went out between rain showers to stock up for the next few days
and my guy was in there, doing his thing, selling the booze, chatting up the customers
I got my stuff, he showed me a stash of a rare minibottle that I covet
He said he saved it just for me, and you know, just for a minute, I thought that we are more than just customer and clerk. He thought of me when I wasn’t there. In my pathetic isolation, I believed that.
But it was ok in the end. I told him I needed to write today, and he said, today is a good day to make some great poetry, what with the rain, the grey skies, and a couple of pops of liquor to lubricate the wheels, I mean, that’s what I do when I want to create.
And in that moment, we connected. He said, your eyes are twinkling today. I said, you look about sixteen with your new glasses. He said, write about it! It’s a good day to write!
In the half dark, I write. The rain falls soft, then hard. The tv murmurs in a back room. And I write. I write. The booze sits untouched, waiting for a celebration or maybe a wake, but the words come
strong and sharp and cut me to the quick.
keeps the kitties in kibble and me in tacos