Even shaved headed girls
get the blues,
sitting in classy joints alone,
drinking whiskey and
silently weeping
over dead boys and their fathers.
Looking up from the placemat you are writing on
and recognizing the bartender
who you think you remember
being sloshed at a show at the club Bohemia
grinding up against a barstool,
but you keep catching his eye
and he wonders why you are smiling to yourself.
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