Road Warrior Curves…
I dropped anchor
On a bar stool at Corona’s.
There’s nothing like a salt air
Island bar that makes you want to
Re-examine your 401-K
And early retirement
It seemed only the locals
Knew about the place;
…probably better that way.
Sometimes Jon Bon Jovi or Kenny G
Would stop in for a beer
But we’d never interupt their privacy.
It was a protocol
Not to be violated;
Kind of a “crushed-ice” honor code
If you will.
Today there were two local lesbians
Sitting at the end of the bar a little
Pot-valiant and feeling no pain
For 1:30 in the afternoon.
Xena, the one I knew, rode a Harley
And would arm wrestle for drinks.
She didn’t have any money
So she was pretty good at it.
“When are you coming over
To the dark side,”
She would ask me, laughing?
“I don’t have the right equipment, Xena,”
I’d volley back at her.
A sign over the bar read,
“Our Beer is as Cold as
Your Ex-Wife’s Heart.”
Turk was the owner.
A disgruntled establishment dropout
And a three-time marital loser;
That and trying to escape the pain
Of losing a daughter to a drunk driver;
…an evident truth now that he
Only drank tonic with a lime.
When the place would clear out
I’d try to talk reason with him;
But he was so boiled in turmoil
Over his ex’s adulterous betrayals
That by now he looked at all
Women as lecherous deviants.
He seemed to be taking out his pain
On an entire gender.
I would scratch my head
Trying to make sure
I understood Turks lessons sometimes.
Xena might have had better luck
Changing Turks mind
Than I was going to.
A redhead with “road warrior” curves
And a slight overbite
Sat down next to me and smiled.
I felt compelled to take up the slack
Of Turks misguided convictions.
…and I learned long ago
That if you were looking for perfection
You’d never get lucky.
“Buy you a drink,” I asked?