Bar Poem

I'm composing a poem
for Mike County
about this bar
that used to sell
hot nuts
cuz my knitting's tangled
and tea lights make
a better story
with forgotten George's lighter
and the lilty-voiced guy asking,
"Whatchya writing?"
and later if
my marriage is happy
or if I'll pump and dump.

Amanda off being badkarmadized
by rhymes with Terminator
after DK plays
The Magnificent Seven
and we dance
like we've still got it
the woman in the blue beret
still does
until fat bottomed guy gets up
and vomits music
sends us running
to the back door, not smoking
til it's over.

But I'm not crying cuz
3's a magic number
and the first set
wasn't "schlock" and
there's a bass player, a kid,
his badge I think says, "kill the hippies"
But we don't talk to him.
Yet.

Turns out there's a guy
wants a baby but not the woman
to go with
so we walk.
In snow, talking about
glass sailboats and lace shawls,
husbands and babies
Monday out
to say that
all's not dead
when snow falls over Gloucester.