Every Open Mic In Every City Has One…Or More

she was married when we first met
soon to be divorced

The only folksinger I ever knew
who could make this song
sound like evil on the wing

helped her out of a jam I guess
but I used a little too much force

was onstage every Tuesday at the Coco Bean
banging a criminally good looking
prewar Martin

we drove that car as far as we could
abandoned it out west
split up on the docks that night
both agreeing it was best

with his suburban cracktoned voice
and overly practiced and dogged sincerity
(belied by our awareness of his bad original repertoire

in which he played at Delta truth
while tossing winks and nudges at a racist belief
that he was the sole keeper of such perfectly primitive knowledge)

she turned around to look at me
as I was walking away
I heard her say over my shoulder
we’ll meet again someday
on the avenue
tangled up in blue

God we hated him
and we figured God hated us
for putting that nearly real wriggle in his fingers
and that perfect mahogany goddess in his hands
so we sniped and drank and paid little attention
even as the women fell into his lap
and when it was our turn we did what we could
to make them forget those songs
and the way the son of a bitch played them
we knew better
we were better

we’d be so much bigger
and more authentic
if only we had the money
for a sweet ass guitar like that