Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Banjo Player

This is a bit older than the poems I just posted but hey, that doesn't matter.

Also I've noticed I tend to write a lot of poetry about live mics. The reason is that sometimes I get bored when I'm at one. But sometimes I have a really great time - the problem is I don't write poetry when I'm having a terrific time at a live mic, I sit on the edge of my seat and pay attention. So ultimately the impression that I hate live mics is incorrect, you're viewing a biased sample.

Banjo Player

The banjo player stumbles
Around the key like a
Drunk man looking for a
Place to pee. I shift
In my seat.

Across the room- she's got
Earrings like hula hoops-
Looking and flipping through
Her papers like you do
In line at the DMV.

Next to me a man in his forties,
Eyes bright and shining like pennies,
Looks like he's at his first Christmas.
But this fellow's special somehow-

The ladies running this thing are
Watching the clock like hawks. They
Keep one eye on the list as if
There's a bus coming they don't want to miss.

Meanwhile the banjo player's voice is
A thin tin whistle, he's playing with broken yellow
Nails like he searched the hard scrabble road
For a song and couldn't get it to come up.

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