the man with the silver mullet

the man with
the silver mullet
sits and smokes
in one of those places
you’re no longer
allowed to do it,
looks blankly
from side to side,
thinks those thoughts
we pretend
aren’t forbidden
nowadays.

the man with
the silver mullet
inhales smoky yesterdays,
the smell of the old dances
and the beats and beasts of
a long night’s endurance.

he grins hatefully
at the young scoundrels.

the man with
the silver mullet
mutters in a language
long thought extinct
as a blue minivan
rolls by
blasting
mid-tempo reggae
which seems to pulse
in the air
alongside
the day’s humidity.

he feels the meager wind in his party in the back.

yes the party’s in the back
the party’s in the back,
but the music
died out a long time ago,
and now all that’s left
is a busted-laser cd player
and a trail of vomit
leading to the screen door.

the passing bus has
an insignia.
says “CHAMPIONS.”

I can’t quite locate them
just now.

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