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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