A Waiter at El Patio

This tall, clumsy, yet handsome man
wearing indigo and bone,
and well-groomed auburn hair,
smooth talks ol' Al
into serving customers' drinks.
He emerges holding a
big, round charcoal tray --
unstable glasses and bottles
waddle in slow motion,
lean and sway
like pivoting dancers who,
in seconds, swivel, loop
rotate, propel in larger circles
as he approaches our table.

Quick, I push back my chair
pop up from the table
step far enough away.
Tipsy bottles and glasses wobble
clank against each other
like struck bowling pins.
Liquids spill onto the table
on people's laps, onto their hair,
soaking their clothes.
I get a quick whiff of beer,
wine, rum and coke.
Bottles and glasses fall,
crash and shatter on the floor –
startling reflexes, scowling lips,
protruding eyeballs, flaring nostrils.
Patrons shriek, yell,
flail their arms into the air,
grabbing thin napkins
to soak up the puddles.

Dumbstruck,
I rub my chin,
sprint to the left,
skip on my way
to the bathroom, laughing
like an hysterical escapee.

Free Tickets

I appealed to him dressed like a lady –
in skirt, blouse, curly perm.

A New Orleans local chauffeured
me around town, rattled on
about his life. He bought tickets for us
to hear Clifton Chenier, great Zydeco player.
Car backfired over a loud muffler.
Fire ignited under the hood. I bailed.

He muttered something about driving
his car home. Handed me the tickets.
I stood on the curb laughing.

Watched him zoom down the road,
fire smoldered upward
from cracks under the hood.
Smoke billowed out the back end.
"THANKS FOR THE TICKETS!"

Enjoyed myself listening to Clifton Chenier
at the downtown night club. Shook my buns
that night with two handsome tourist guys.