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THE PISCES CAFÉ
by Gloria g. Murray
 

no one was over twenty

and there I was just past sixty

in my white Keds and Gloria V Capri's

with an attaché of poetry

and a bottle of Poland Spring



they had pink or green hair

tongue & toe rings

chains around their necks & ankles

poems crumpled

in the back pockets of ripped jeans

and names like Clarity or Kat



I signed up for the open mike

trying to figure out what I could read

I had some death

and anti-establishment poems

but none with the F word

which of course was a big priority



O, they slammed and jammed

and their words were electricity

in the dimness of the café

and then I got up

with my tight ass poems

where every word was accounted for

every line in its proper place



and since everyone got applauded

and whistled at

of course they were polite

and gave me the some of the same

but I knew that sixty, or fifty, or even forty

just didn't cut it

yet when I left some guy smiled

and said, "hey, I dig your poems"



but I figure he had a mother thing

you know, like he really dug her

I mean, really



 

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