Kate and I used to hang out
in this little coffee house
called "Marnie's."
The lighting was awful;
the whole room burned a warm, soft ochre,
like Red Zinger tea,
or amber;
and it clinked all night long,
with stirring spoons
and dessert forks
and coffee cups.
And we'd dress up.
(For no reason, really.)
In wool skirts and loafers.
Black nylons and mock turtle-neck sweaters.
And Kate always wore that vinyl jacket, because--
Hell--
She could.
And we met people--boys--
who said they were
musicians, actors, artists and poets.
They talked about Shakespeare.
Carried their guitars
in old, cracked cases.
Recited poems
with a b a b
rhyme schemes
about the beautiful women
who had broken their hearts.
And, using little ball-point pens,
might doodle pictures of Kate
on the napkins that read "Marnie's."
Pictures of Kate, who smiled
and always wore red lipstick, because--
Hell--
She could.
And Kate and I
would scurry off
to the ladies' room,
our loafers shuffling around
on the faded, terrazzo floor,
and comment on how awful
the fluorescent lights
make your skin look in there--
whitish-green and doughy,
like the insides
of a Macintosh apple.
Then, Kate would open her purse
and lean into the mirror,
letting her mouth hang slack
as she applied
a fresh coat of mascara, because--
Hell--
She could.
Then, later, we'd look
into our empty coffee cups
and gather our coats and our things.
And we would leave our dark, cluttered,
lion-colored corner behind.
And the poetry reader,
with the musician
who played the guitar,
might open the door for me,
then
pull Kate aside,
only to feel the weight
of her small wrists
in their hands.
Because she'd
made them fall in love with her--
Hell--
She could.
Reason for writing:
Inspired by my friend, Kate, and Jason Delph's "Neon Lips and Roadhouse Words" (very good poem -- read here: http://www.cyberpages.com/dopoem/poem?id=25843&prevurl=http%3A%2Fdopoem%2Fname%3Fletter%3Djason%2520delph%26count%3D40)
Birth sign: Virgo
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