Paying Bills At McGovern’s Liquors

Let’s start this by saying
she’s cute in that
wow-before-all-the-alcohol-you-musta-been-something
kinda way.

She’s ranting at Mrs. Bell
who’s doing her
good-natured-suffering-because-this-one-is-going-to-buy-something-eventually bit
from behind the counter.

The Ghost Of Cutie Past is agitated,
proclaims
“I’m French, German, Indian, Irish and
Russian.  I rule this earth.
I need my vodka. I have a princess suit —
I’m sensitive!  I could be
on Oprah!  I mean, I need my vodka,
why would they do that to me?”

Mrs. Bell rolls her eyes in my direction.

All I want to do is pay my cable bill
so I can have uninterrupted access to the Internet
and all the good shows on TV,
but right now
I’m beginning to reconsider
what I call a need.

As I leave, Mrs. Bell is saying,

“I know you’re angry, honey,
but honestly, they’re a business,
what did you think they’d do?”

The answer’s lost behind me
as I walk out the door
to my car and head for home.

I’m not drunk or stoned,
not too cold,
was never pretty so I’ve lost no looks to age
and wear,
don’t have a princess suit though I bet
I could get one,
and this is one sensitive half-breed
who knows he’ll never rule the earth —
but I’ve been there, friends,
I’ve been where she was, and
I’ve been where Mrs. Bell was, too.
I’ve asked the same questions,
and given myself the same answer:

How could they do that to me?

Why won’t Oprah call me, or someone
who’ll let me talk it out
and make everything better?

What, exactly, did you expect them to do?

Maybe I should have stuck around
just a minute or two longer
and found out.
Maybe I should have handed over
one moment of sympathy for these neighbors
bound to the eternal questions —

but the TV’s waiting,
and there’s a whole world of unmet friends
waiting on this
critical message
I was born to share.