sixty seconds before happy hour
the spiderhair barkeep
asks me what i want
i put my hand up
without breaking my gaze
on the clock
the second hand slowly sweeps
away the seconds
one mississippi, two mississippi,
three mississippi, four...
the barkeep sits and waits;
lets out a loud impatient sigh
sure, Spiderhair’s probably secure in his
day job, putting away his 401K
he took this moonlighter to meet women
he can probably even afford to keep a girlfriend or two
but not i, the lowly, despised dive poet
the introspective journalist drunk
who spends each meager penny on beer
and ink and napkins and paper
i can scarcely afford a dropp before the
work-bell rings, before that fat lady sings
the seconds wind down
fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine
i turn and smile.
“i’ll have your least expensive import” i declare.
i might be a broke poet, but i have my dignity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem