(A Poem about my favorite hangout in Richmond, Va, back in the mid-80's)
Prism glass shifts to
mirror from this angle. I
ignore my reflection to watch
Art School students in thrift
shop clothes and weird
hair. The new Beat
Generation hangs dangerous in
this withering cafe. William the Poet
hovers, (no doubt stoned), over a
notebook calling up
Kerouac's ghost. Outside
is the pumpkin dusk. Neon signs
click click on to hum pastel bright.
Across Grace St. dirt woman sits
big-bellied waving to the
Fags who see him as a
gross old Queen. My good friend
Jorge lopes in to drift among conversation and
beer. Marti Jo serves another pitcher.
She laughs cracked at our
bad jokes. The jukebox plays
old Rolling Stones and Lou Reed.
I stand without legs and float to the
intriguing bathroom. In the
morning the rest of the
evening will be
forgotten.
© Jerry L. Kirk
Prism glass shifts to
mirror from this angle. I
ignore my reflection to watch
Art School students in thrift
shop clothes and weird
hair. The new Beat
Generation hangs dangerous in
this withering cafe. William the Poet
hovers, (no doubt stoned), over a
notebook calling up
Kerouac's ghost. Outside
is the pumpkin dusk. Neon signs
click click on to hum pastel bright.
Across Grace St. dirt woman sits
big-bellied waving to the
Fags who see him as a
gross old Queen. My good friend
Jorge lopes in to drift among conversation and
beer. Marti Jo serves another pitcher.
She laughs cracked at our
bad jokes. The jukebox plays
old Rolling Stones and Lou Reed.
I stand without legs and float to the
intriguing bathroom. In the
morning the rest of the
evening will be
forgotten.
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| 'Afternoons at the Village Cafe' by Jerry Kirk (Click to view larger) |
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