Just Thinking About Walt Whitman

In the lunch hour alleys of the city, We ate our Mexican food with the mild sauce, Not wanting to raise the heat of our conversations; Our plans were a rock concert at a small venue Where the pretty but slightly plump girls scream Drunken love to the lead singer, And the tall man with the fresh tan Hangs out in the back aisle scoping out the chicks; And a few people begin to dance with missile-happy, Excited legs spraying all over the place, And I just want everyone to be joyful Without punk rocking the scene with any consonantal violence, And I always want to dig the waitress passing out the beers, She tends to have cute, short black hair and some hip tattoo; If I’m already sober, she will give me a free coffee And I’ll sit in a dimly-lit back corner all lonely And try to write a melancholy poem about her eyes; If I’m slightly inebriated, she’ll smile and get an easy tip And then tell me to behave myself; Someone will bring pizza and get all-tomato stained In the shuffle and flow of the night, And then, when I go outside, I’ll have a fistful Of quarters and dimes to give to the homeless guys In some small way to pay back my debt to society For letting me read Walt Whitman undisturbed on Sundays.