to that italian place where even the busboys act mobbed-up.
the band sucked hard, and i had haffa mind to walk up to the bandstand,
wearing running red super gloss on my sweetest smile
and coo a request for one of my own songs.
i wanted to see the dumb look i’d get, and share the joke with you.
they had those cheesy meshed glass candles on the tables,
like mrs paul had just been there, recycling the nets and whipping out the matches.
when did you stop loving me, babe?
why’d you make me be the one to have to see it,
to have to say it?
when i left, it had started to rain
just like in some 40s flick where blondie finally gets a clue.
i waved down a yellow cab and snapped a heel cos the pavement was cracked from winter
and they hadn’t patched it yet.
when i got home, i pitched those shoes in the vestibule;
heartbreaker red, they were, putting a real fine point on it,
like mama does when she lets loose with the i told ya so’s.
well fuck you, dagwood, cos i’ve still got my stage boots.
whad’you got except a cheap sinatra raincoat with empty arms
and your crew of phoney buddies?
and by the way,
i took the cannoli.
for real toads. art by Vandy Massey.
written while listening to B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone”, courtesy of Hedgewitch at Verse Escape.