Liquor Lyle's
John Vick
We sit here and I become disgusted
with you. It's a blue-collar straight bar,
the last twofer happy hour in town,
and I don't want to discuss how long
it will take to cook the chicken,
what a bitch the upstairs neighbor has become,
or our latest home decorating project.
It's no place for the gay thing, and
no matter how many queens you think
you've spotted in the crowd
or how well-versed you are in sports trivia,
neither will make any difference in a fight.
I calm down, realize my own pride deficiency,
but now reel at your attempt to not be gay
and tip like a straight because cash is short.
I've been out of the closet for a quarter century
and will be damned if I'm going to swallow
my self-hatred one minute
and leave a cheap tip the next.
I wish walking home
that the sun would set earlier
so I could sneak my hand
into yours and press hard,
thankful for my best buddy,
and that the ordeal has ended,
regardless of anything
because I know at home
we will converse in many languages
and all is gratis.
