Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.191.163.22

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

I’m a ‘bar-back’, I stack,
I pull up the crates, unpack and rack.
I hump boxes of glasses in,
then I hump them out again.
I roll barrels into a hand-cranked elevator,
then roll the empties into the club cellar
where they now lay stinking.
The dude who’s supposed to hose them out,
has skipped. In this town
a citizen was chopped up,
and left in a bar beer barrel;
folks are naturally a little sensitive.
               I’m fired.
Days later I’m washing dishes
at the Canton Buffet,
the perpetually angry manager
starts yelling at me in Cantonese.
There’s a phone call from the guy
who is supposed to be hosing down
the aluminum beer barrels.
He’s in a motel
shacked up with the redhead bartender
from the ‘Gentleman’s Club.’
She’s a skank,
but I see where he might have been tempted.
The buffet manager is standing next to me
by the wall-phone,
his arms are folded.
He's impatiently tapping his toes,
while this guy (who I hardly knew),
is yapping to me like we are best buds.
I can hear the ‘skank’ giggling loudly in the
background, the ‘hose guy’ is snickering also,
he’s obviously jacked-up on snow.
                I'm fired.
I decide to get a real job,
and maybe write a little poetry -
should have known that was bull.
              I find a job,

another gig that pays for my sweat.
I’m still hunched over a splatter of words
that should have first been hosed down,
and despite the choices I could have made,
I'm stuck with that redheaded skank
            I call my Muse.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required