01.14
Intrigued by the film noir flyer
sealed into the corner streetlamp.
Seduced by the scent
of sublime stogies
and murmuring macchiato.
The grizzly, lazy-eyed
sidewalk strummer
fingering linear chords
like a lost virtuoso
looked up to greet me,
as I eased inside past
the local university boys
(sporting the same haircut
displaying different shades of plaid)
to a worn, orange, recliner.
Narrow girls
with lifeless hair
crossed tapered denim legs
on wicker chairs
waiting for boyfriends
to belt out blasé songs
from their indie bands
with commercial names.
I sat, glad snapping is passé.
Sentiments stemming from my
Latino lineage—
Dad’s machismo explained:
his calloused thumbs,
my propensity for double entendres,
and Mom’s friend who visited
late-night while he was away.
Though I’m a jr.,
I didn’t inherit his ways.
I just wanted to sign the sheet.
Read my meager poems,
hoping one of the narrow girls
would notice and say,
“Damn. That was good…”