The guy who covers
Johnny Cash
is the hottest ticket
tonight.
The real deals are dead
and cheap copies remain.
A scenester can’t stand
to scratch her itchy nose,
and a slide guitar is heard
on the other side of town.
An unimpressed crowd
nods semi-rhythmically
in between text messages
and sighs,
and a pallimani plays.
I turn my head from
a sardonic smirk to
and ironic mustache
to stylish eye glasses,
to a button made of yard,
a checkered table cloth I recall.
I sometimes go to the
open mic blue grass jam
at the wheel club
outside of town.
Where they serve wine
from jugs
and bags of old dutch.
Out of town.
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