©Love on The Left
How I Prevented A Barroom Brawl
All Rights Reserved
Saturday morning breakfast off
Mill Avenue’s famous restaurant’s mezzanine
in the smoky, boisterous, and profanely
jam-packed Tapestry Room
and I nonchalantly quipped to the air
I wanted to tour old Route 66 to paint
and suggested we could both write.
George pounced on the idea
like a wolf on rabbit prey.
A momentary, penetrating stare
at my long and wild, frizzy, natural-curly hair
and he added I looked like some Fiji Islander.
An exotic observation for once
since he usually called me
you crazy Bohemian.
With an atypical burst of energy,
his chair scratched the parquet floor,
and then turned over,
knocking over a trolley of collected
and deposited dirty dishes with a loud crash.
Someone groaned Oh Hell
and the place fell into a frightful silence
as though they expected a barroom brawl.
The silence became so absolute,
the click of an electronic cigarette
being turned on sounded loud.
Only levity could change this atmosphere,
so, buttons clicked and pinged
on the table top and the floor
as I ripped open my full-length dress
and tore it from myself so
I stood naked...
except for my cowboy boots...
and began signing, at the top of my lungs,
I ain’t got no body.
Apathetic, crotchety, and cynical old men,
whose legs were too brittle and stiff to walk out on me,
stood and listened with the others—
not because I had a great voice.
I had an Olive Oyl body that,
after I finished my song and dance,
had them all bursting with laughter and applause
because, honestly, I ain’t got no body.