Booking at a Southern Indiana Coffee Shop

Booking yourself to read

Poetry at a coffee shop

In southern Indiana

Is like selling Nicorette

To Bob Dylan

They look at you for

A moment,

Scan your eyes for lies,

Squint ever-so slightly.

Screech the word “WHAT?!”

So the entire café

Puts their croissants down

And listens in like

Child soldiers.

You try to reason

With the caffeinated brains of

The baristas

“Yes, I am going to

Read poetry with

Music in the background”

They never understand

The eighth time so

You have to say it nine

“Words, music, poetry”

They cock their heads

To the right

Flare their nostrils as if

Someone farted in the car

And the window-lock

Is on.

Nod a bit

Mutter inaudibly beneath

Their breaths

Rush off to gossip

In the kitchen.

Names are dropped

Fabio, Don Juan,

Faggot.

You take your seat

In the front

It wobbles

The microphone

Doesn’t work

You asked for

Regular and they

Gave you decaf

Shit…

The voices from the

Crowd sound like adults

From Charlie Brown

Wah Woh Wuh Wah Wah

SSHHZZIIZIZIZIZKZKIKIZIKEIEKEIK

The mic shocks the

Shit out of your mouth

Microphone works

You begin your

First piece

Tourist child at

Front table

Farts

Your first poem

Was dedicated to your

Deceased grandmother

Laughter erupts

Southern Indiana knows

Good comedy

“ARE YOU wah GOING wah wah TO wahhhhh SING?”

Your next poem is

Unfortunately titled

“Life Goes On”

The clever Hoosiers

Break into a four-part

Harmonized rendition

Of “Jack and Diane”

Goddamn you

John Mellencamp

Twelve poems in

You are ready to take

A break

The only thing more awkward

Than opening your

Heart to a crowd

Full of rednecks

Is the blatant

Disregard for subtly

That only southern

Folk can manage

The Elderly complain about

Not being able to hear you.

The Children begin fussing

And become perturbed when

They realize that I am not Miley Cyrus.

The Mothers assess my wardrobe

And verbalize how fancy

I must be.

The 15 year-old Girls gaze

In awe, as they think me the

Most dreamy thing since

Justin Bieber.

The 15 year-old Boys q

my heterosexuality.

All while the Fathers

Calculate the possibility that I

Was looking at their 15 year-old

Daughter/Son.

You just want

A medium regular

Roast,

Black

Predict Jokes

“Yes, I am too fancy for sugar”

Ten more poems

You are almost there

You begin number

Fifteen and realize

It’s about 9/11

Improvise by changing

Every Fascist to Patriot

For fear of reenacting

Scenes from Deliverance

They buy it

One father sheds a

Red, white, and blue

Tear

The Oscar goes to…

Last poem…

Finished

Getting up to leave

A small boy, sporting

Camo shorts and a

General Lee t-shirt,

Runs to put his

Slingshot in your

Tip jar

“Mister, I don’ know who yew are

Or why I came here this evenin’

But your stories made me

Feel bad fer shootin’ my

Neighbors dog with

My shooter when

No one’s home.

Also, I have this geode.

I don’t think it’s worth

Much, but it looks

Cool

It ain't a lot,

But it’s all I got.”

And that

Ladies and gentlemen

Is why I believe in

Peace

I wanted more

Than anything to

Tell him that

It is a lot

That I could ask

For nothing more

Than to get lost in something

So beautiful as a child’s eyes

Finding fool’s gold

But his father

Snatched him up quick

Leaving me with

My journal

Some kid’s life savings

And a little more

Hope for the world

So next time you

Happen to be caught

Passing through

Southern Indiana,

Book a coffee shop

For me.