Cass Cafe by WL Bush
Cass Café
The old man fingered swirls in his hair, and sipped a pint of draft through a straw.
On the wall: Catholicism influenced pictures,
Gaunt men with gaunt eyes, dying; women crying...
I ordered the perch anyway,
Though it was Saturday, not Friday.
"The Hip Hop scene is dead," the guy next to me said.
"It's played out. I've been on the scene for six years,
And all I see are the same ol’ cats."
Hip Hop guy was eating hummus.
"Did you ever try chocolate covered coffee beans?" he asked.
"It worked like Viagra for me. My wife didn't know what hit her.
'What got into you,' she said. Coffee beans, I told her.”
A girl with locks sat next to me, speed-drinking coffee
And going through smokes like a pack cost a dime.
"You're an amalgamation of many things," she said to me.
"You're serially monogamous...for weeks at a time."
In the background, The Smiths played William.
The old man had finished nursing from his beer tit
And faded into the backdrop of the cold city, the cold night.
To my delight, a woman sat down in his stool dolled up like Clara Bow
...soon followed by her beau.
"We've just come from the DIA," said Bow.
"There's an old bathroom in the basement that looks like something from the 'thirties!
So we dressed up like this and took pictures!
My boyfriend's a painter; I'm his muse!"
I was confused; where was my muse?
I had nada but a half pitcher of Nut Brown, a fish sandwich,
And a cartoon bartender wearing yellow neon gloves that matched his shirt.
With whom was I to flirt? Wherefrom should I have drawn inspiration? The hour was late.
I sang Sinatra, One For My Baby.
"Tell me a story," I said to Coffee Girl. "Be my muse of fire."
She lit her tenth cigarette, spun in her stool to face me,
And told me the tale of a butterfly...frozen in Plexiglas.
WL Bush © 2006
The old man fingered swirls in his hair, and sipped a pint of draft through a straw.
On the wall: Catholicism influenced pictures,
Gaunt men with gaunt eyes, dying; women crying...
I ordered the perch anyway,
Though it was Saturday, not Friday.
"The Hip Hop scene is dead," the guy next to me said.
"It's played out. I've been on the scene for six years,
And all I see are the same ol’ cats."
Hip Hop guy was eating hummus.
"Did you ever try chocolate covered coffee beans?" he asked.
"It worked like Viagra for me. My wife didn't know what hit her.
'What got into you,' she said. Coffee beans, I told her.”
A girl with locks sat next to me, speed-drinking coffee
And going through smokes like a pack cost a dime.
"You're an amalgamation of many things," she said to me.
"You're serially monogamous...for weeks at a time."
In the background, The Smiths played William.
The old man had finished nursing from his beer tit
And faded into the backdrop of the cold city, the cold night.
To my delight, a woman sat down in his stool dolled up like Clara Bow
...soon followed by her beau.
"We've just come from the DIA," said Bow.
"There's an old bathroom in the basement that looks like something from the 'thirties!
So we dressed up like this and took pictures!
My boyfriend's a painter; I'm his muse!"
I was confused; where was my muse?
I had nada but a half pitcher of Nut Brown, a fish sandwich,
And a cartoon bartender wearing yellow neon gloves that matched his shirt.
With whom was I to flirt? Wherefrom should I have drawn inspiration? The hour was late.
I sang Sinatra, One For My Baby.
"Tell me a story," I said to Coffee Girl. "Be my muse of fire."
She lit her tenth cigarette, spun in her stool to face me,
And told me the tale of a butterfly...frozen in Plexiglas.
WL Bush © 2006
Comments