HOME BOY AND THE ZEN SHIT (August Postcard Poem 2017)

Home Boy is the Thursday night bartender at Thirsty Ben’s.

 

Buddha arrives at 8:08,

not one minute earlier or later.

 

He has a thing for the number eight,

upended infinity begging for a reprieve.

 

The beer and wings crowd has actually noticed,

leaving the end stool perpetually open.

 

But only on Thursdays, the night of the Buddha.

 

Neighborhood ritual is highly respected.

 

At exactly 8:08, the door to Ben’s opens,

the sea of testosterone parts for the prophet.

 

Buddha wears black Converse, cargo shorts, a t-shirt,

retro Magic Eight Ball silkscreened on front.

 

Home Boy starts the blender,

adds opinion, skewered fact,

mixes a cocktail of convolution:

politics, philosophy, religion,

with a finishing jigger of racy hood gossip.

 

A garnish of ego tops off the drink.

 

Buddha is offered this signature cocktail,

though he always declines,

yet pays just the same.

 

Home Boy sighs and murmurs:

“Just the usual then,”

retrieving the sake off the top shelf,

adding just one ice cube,

clear as the truth,

strong in its pleasure,

so like the man.

 

Copyright 2017

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