the folk singer

he did his best to wrest
from the words the angst
of a poet, articulated passions
from the reticulated python
that squeezed his soul through
the wire to an indifferent crowd.


the waitress with red hair

waifish and frail,
a world-weary look,
too stale for someone so young.
a shrug of a hug
from her clothing of choice,
quiet comfort over the glamour
of self-enamoured Hollywood
types, playing on the hype
that separates us from the desolation
in the realization we all
live our own lives, she just already knows
the secret the customers are trying
to buy in their cups of coffee.


the young lovers

no sweat.  they make it look
effortless.  maybe to people who
fall into it, love is a simple thing.
a certain spring, grandmother's ring
and a happy everafter.  every afterthought
left behind without a hollow laugh
as their fingers interlace and eyes interface
as if made to go together, by design.


gossip over espresso

a gaggle of giggling women.
age so indeterminate in this town.
although, under 60 is a good bet,
I've yet
to see a scalpel
that cuts that many years away.
in their own world, almost as though
slumming with the Bohemians,
while their husbands are off
on business trips, 
banging their secretaries.


the tip jar

you won't get to the nearest star
relying on what falls into the tip jar.
hidden behind the brownies stacked
to the moon.  sooner or later,
give it up.  or hop another gravy train.
loose change to rearrange
your schedule for, but not enough
to keep body and soul stapled together
by the coin of the realm of consumers.
consuming food, not the mood of the artist.


second act

I almost left
until I saw the second act, waiting.
leopard jacket, blonde hair.  lovely.
a resonance to someone fair
I'd punted away to guard a liar's vanity.
insanity breeds demons and so I fed
one my tears as I bled some time from
my life's clock to listen to her music.
of course, the miniskirt didn't hurt
my attention span, at all.  at all.


the new song

she opened with something new.
true to form,
with all new things,
the strings did not match the pipes,
and the kinks threw elbow blocks
at our temples.  
her grimace
spoke volumes of self-criticism,
but she had a mother's patience.
she knew this song to be an ugly child,
but maybe
it would grow up to get her that 
contract with America,
through the nearest record store.
and, if not,
it was still her child.
integrity is only measured under fire.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)