Next to the city in that little rundown bar
where Jimmy Loads is the only one who
ever touches the juke we put a bucket
in the middle of the table one night
and all four of us tossed in a bottlecap
every time Jimmy played side 2
of American Pie. He never played
side 1, only side 2, and every time
someone else even went near
that machine he'd snarl like a dingo
with half a cassowary to himself.
By the time we left, many many
trips to the urinals later, damn me
if that bucket weren't filled to the rim
and my veins half Bundaberg.
The four of us left Jimmy to it,
staggered home for a few hours'
sleep before another day of onion
prep, and I had nightmares about
the last train for the coast till dawn.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Mason Street, Poetry Pea, and TMP Zine, among others.