Poem of the Day 10.09.25

short guy syndrome at the beer and wing joint
on a sunday afternoon in august

he comes sauntering

into the center of the bar

all 4-feet 11-inches of him

bright hawaiian shirt
and cargo shorts

yankess hat pulled low

chicken neck bobbing
bug-eyes sticking out

he’s tan from a tough summer
lounging around the beach
and jerking-off to conservative tv

his woman asks him where he wants to sit

he looks at her
like she’s asked him to fuck his mom
and he says,

i dunno
any-fuckin-where

then he cases the joint
like he’s looking for a fight
even though it’s sunday afternoon
it’s just me and my wife
and a half-empty bar full of old men

he roosters around the place
like his head just got cut off

while his woman stands there
confusedly looking at empty sets of tables and chairs

finally he notices her
and says,

what in the fuck you doin?
this ain’t brain surgery
for chrissake

he cock-a-doodles over to her
grabs her arm and pulls her to a table

says,
was it that fuckin’ hard?

before they sit down
to look at the drink menu

his feet barely touching the floor

he looks like a ventriloquist’s dummy
sitting there

i can’t help but look away

before he sees me and inevitably says
what the fuck you lookin’ at, buddy?

all 4-feet 11-inches of him

and me
knowing exactly where that question
usually leads.