on sunday at the music club

while the open mic is flowing
she wheels him in

a wrangler’s wide-brim on top
grey-plait hair behind
and half his spectacles
snow-blinded by cotton wool

but the chair is a little beauty
six wheels and a battery
to move him forward and around
with a finger-kiss on the lever

he’s rigged up like that Hawking guy
who thinks his way out across the universe

they could be kin beneath that akubra

and she’s slinking around in black
under a blow-dried blonde
blowsy big
with a cigarette and a gin in hand
to socialize with the regulars

~

main act
first set
the lead is a world-music bounce-man
capering around the microphone
a six-piece combo
blowing and strumming
singing tagalog
as though lives depend on it

she’s slipping back in
through the side door
a can of sliced peaches in her hand

while the stage
gets soulful and sincere
she’s doing soft fruit with a spoon
underneath the hat
till he shoos her away
irritated

~

next up for open mic  
ladies and gentlemen –
the gypsy

she’s battened a washboard
to her rhythm section
slid into leather tin-thimble gloves
and commandeered the band
to play through break time

here come some dirty blues

crying and roaring
stroke-and-scratch caressing
in twelve-eight time

yowling
the she-wolf on big moon night

there’s stomping in the audience
swaying out of chairs
hey big momma
yeah big momma
oh yes
she plays

but he doesn’t move at all
and hell knows what he’s looking at
but when she’s done that song
with the dirty how-how-how
she’s straight off the stage
to kiss him tight
like it was all for him

~

out in the courtyard
she’s smoking another drink
sucking in drags
until the high goes down

and he’s holding mute court
to a procession
of muso-girls
who come to guru for a minute
or for a while

passing his time until the gypsy is ready
to take him home

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© Frank Prem, 2010

 

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