Cummer

Cummer in the earliest Fall

The singer seamlessly stops mid-lyric and slings a breathy “hey” my way

as I wait for the waitress, shoulder to the wall.

Hey.

Plate glass reflecting shifting shades of surrealism (and painted sunglasses?)

refract a popular culture that aged out of power decades ago. 

I’m fidgety at a table by myself, trying to channel this energy properly but

my pen taps mad against the paper.

Brain, be still.

It’s actually still warm outside but

inside the Atrium the best kind of chill has descended,

driving my fists inside pockets.

“Stand by me,” on repeat, three words exhaled through gap teeth.

Listen: to electric guitar somehow quietly shredding,

to the soft back and forth pad of of the singer’s feet.

Listen to the shotgun scooch of cafe chair against carrara marble.

This music is more suited for fields

trodden down by gathered bohemians

than this current configuration of whispering art patrons

And when the singer drifts off key

doubtless no one notices ‘cept me and that’s fine-

I can keep my mouth shut.