Joe Ely sends soft lightning
through a crowd of nostalgic white-hairs
wintering their frigid bums on the Gulf of Mexico.
Of the many fine grand-daughters present
her dizzy hips find sway as Joe sings of lucky eyes on senoritas.
She drinks rum, she drinks beautiful,
holding my hand so tight I’d swear it was our second date.
His voice unhinges properly sedated memories and the
tears bum rush as they do these days.
Sand infiltrates the drinks of
lunatics slung shot, shaken and stirred on cheap carnival rides.
After the show he hands me an empty coffee mug.
Hold this, he says,
to Sharpie
a worn out copy of “Honky Tonk Masquerade”
for the matronly beach bunny
who took the entire show to pantomime
her way out of some ancient elaborate box.
He says to her,
Lord, I was so young,
and I walk away with his coffee cup.
I imagine it is an extraordinary cup because Joe Ely impregnates everything with lyrical force.
At home I pour four fat fingers of whiskey into my new mug
but the magic's all gone.
There is no poetry.
She's passed out, snoring,
and I got work in the morning.
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