Poetry’s Motion
“You’re the poet, aren’t ya?”
the squint-eyed, Popeye-armed bartender hurled my way,
slamming down a Bud Light next to the drunken sailor besides me.
Flattered, but not desirous of autograph seekers
in my present condition, I burped, “Another draft, barkeep.”
Cigar smoke hanging
gliding through the flickering yellow light
of the swaying, dusty stained glass chandelier, I watched
my ex, his ex, everyone’s ex playing pool for cash
and other rewards as Mexican love ballads blared
from the old fashioned, fake juke box.
Lips mouthing.
Hands signing.
Fingers caressing
ladies of the night who turned tricks for pennies.
One, more rotund than tall, bumped into my barstool,
grabbed at my backside, but I knew the old trick and already had my wallet secured in my
green flannel jacket pocket.
The regular barflies were especially giddy tonight,
re-enacting the Bosa Nova, the Tango, the Macarana?
Wasn’t sure, and neither were they, as they danced close
more to hold each other up than for the romance
they so desperately wanted, needed, couldn’t express in the
room next door they rented three times a week.
“Two hamburgers, fries, Pepsi-Lights!”
shouted the buzz-cut, tongue studded, college coed
who audited my class last year – the one I gave more than once
‘A’s for sweaty efforts
rather than production of literary masterpieces.
“Now it all comes back to me,” said the drink slinger
who bent over the stained, wooden counter.
“You wrote, ‘Ode to the Dead’ he said
in a breath that would have killed a weaker man.
This time I straightened my shoulders proudly,
stretched my neck clockwise, then counter.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” and I waved like the Queen of England
to her loyal subjects before a soapy dish towel hit me
in my big mouth.
“Clean that crap off the number two stall door
or I’ll tear you a new one, understood?”
Otherwise needing to see a man about a horse anyway, I strutted
towards the back into the cigarette fog, kicked open the door
and bent over to read my words. “Another dumb bastard misquoted me again,” I mumbled
as I took out my Sharpie, corrected the mistake,
and crawled out the broken overhead window to avoid paying my bar tab.
“You’re the poet, aren’t ya?”
the squint-eyed, Popeye-armed bartender hurled my way,
slamming down a Bud Light next to the drunken sailor besides me.
Flattered, but not desirous of autograph seekers
in my present condition, I burped, “Another draft, barkeep.”
Cigar smoke hanging
gliding through the flickering yellow light
of the swaying, dusty stained glass chandelier, I watched
my ex, his ex, everyone’s ex playing pool for cash
and other rewards as Mexican love ballads blared
from the old fashioned, fake juke box.
Lips mouthing.
Hands signing.
Fingers caressing
ladies of the night who turned tricks for pennies.
One, more rotund than tall, bumped into my barstool,
grabbed at my backside, but I knew the old trick and already had my wallet secured in my
green flannel jacket pocket.
The regular barflies were especially giddy tonight,
re-enacting the Bosa Nova, the Tango, the Macarana?
Wasn’t sure, and neither were they, as they danced close
more to hold each other up than for the romance
they so desperately wanted, needed, couldn’t express in the
room next door they rented three times a week.
“Two hamburgers, fries, Pepsi-Lights!”
shouted the buzz-cut, tongue studded, college coed
who audited my class last year – the one I gave more than once
‘A’s for sweaty efforts
rather than production of literary masterpieces.
“Now it all comes back to me,” said the drink slinger
who bent over the stained, wooden counter.
“You wrote, ‘Ode to the Dead’ he said
in a breath that would have killed a weaker man.
This time I straightened my shoulders proudly,
stretched my neck clockwise, then counter.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” and I waved like the Queen of England
to her loyal subjects before a soapy dish towel hit me
in my big mouth.
“Clean that crap off the number two stall door
or I’ll tear you a new one, understood?”
Otherwise needing to see a man about a horse anyway, I strutted
towards the back into the cigarette fog, kicked open the door
and bent over to read my words. “Another dumb bastard misquoted me again,” I mumbled
as I took out my Sharpie, corrected the mistake,
and crawled out the broken overhead window to avoid paying my bar tab.
Joseph D. Di Lella
Joseph Di Lella cut his teeth on The Twilight Zone, Famous Monsters of Filmland, Bradbury, Poe and Verne, While writing
poetry, he attempts to illustrate the human condition and the daily grind we all must overcome. As a professional, he
has pitched tales to the TV series Star Trek: Enterprise and The Dead Zone. His story, Cheating Destiny, was an
‘Alternate Selection’ for Pocket Books "Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (Volume Ten)". In his day job as Assistant
Professor of Bilingual Education in Eastern New Mexico University, he inspires students to live their fondest dreams.
poetry, he attempts to illustrate the human condition and the daily grind we all must overcome. As a professional, he
has pitched tales to the TV series Star Trek: Enterprise and The Dead Zone. His story, Cheating Destiny, was an
‘Alternate Selection’ for Pocket Books "Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (Volume Ten)". In his day job as Assistant
Professor of Bilingual Education in Eastern New Mexico University, he inspires students to live their fondest dreams.
