BIG JIM’S The waiter just now to a patron leaving, “…good luck with your cross-eyed cat!” The wine from a very large bottle in a very small glass bitter, tasting of grape-rust and the mounted Texas bull’s horns loosely hugged by last year’s Christmas greenery. The De Kuyper Buttershots next to the Laphroig next to the Disaronno. The spaghetti a little watery, but not bad. The Styrofoam soup cups holding the individually wrapped saltines, the Red Hot sauce bottles everywhere yet nowhere you need them, the inexplicable Beanie Babies. The cracks and roars of football from each corner, commercial break and suddenly everyone wants to know your name. Monday night at Big Jim’s, work prowls thoughts of morning, and a chill coming from Canada. Remember, poet, and be thankful: you’re not nearly as profound as you think.
Posted on: Tue, 16 Sep 2014 03:25:09 +0000
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