Strangely enough, since I gave up poetry for prose, it has become much easier to write stupid little poems. On that note here’s a little bit of nothing continuing my Tom Waits theme.

Nighthawks at the Diner:

It occurred to me this morning
with a head full of hangover
and a mouth of cotton
that at some point coffee,
my old trusted coffee,
had stopped being masculine,

the bleary eyed welder
sitting in the dark, cigarette amber glow
forcing his old bones into motion coffee
had somehow turned polysyllabic
had turned into chains and froth
into couches and wireless internet.

It’s not that I miss yellow teeth and
whiskeys after work,
ordering it black and having it mean something,
it’s not that at all,
it simply occurred to me
that a gender shift had occurred
and I wasn’t around for the whistle.

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