Linneman’s

At Linneman’s

RiverWest

with McKenzie,

my firstborn,

who is somehow of age,

beautiful, and strong,

despite it all –

we’re just one drink in,

waiting for her boyfriend Zach to play,

when I hit the ladies’ room —

“I’m comin’ out!” the lady in the half-open stall shouts

and so I pee behind the imperfectly locked door of the other stall

while I listen to her humming and talking to herself

and then walk out, she is still talking

to everyone, to no one,

dreadlocks pointing everywhere and nowhere

as her purse, full of mail, or newspapers, or bills, or maybe some

sort of manifesto, not haphazard but

like a file cabinet crossed with an accordion,

orderly perches in the one sink like a satisfied cat

only she is not

washing her hands, and so then I am not, either

but stand there for a moment to see if she will

pick up her purse or whether a Gryffin or mail-carrier

or mouse will crawl out of it, but as it is she just stands there,

letting her conversation flow around us like water

and eventually like an island I think who am I kidding

anyway, I don’t always wash my hands,

and walk out into the darkened bar

where glasses clink and the last performer wraps up a song

about his brother who’d do anything for anyone except that he’s just

died, and the soft glow of phones light up just a few

faces, and the audience poet man finishes his sketch,

and I don’t see her come out of the bathroom

and I don’t think of her again at all

after Zach plays.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s