Frank, you magnificent bastard

It seems and it always

seems that the things

and the things have lost their

innocence through repetition,

what I make of situations

comes out repeated

and said again

in motions

like hands that clench

after I’ve already

told you off,

if you see

what I said,

It seems arrogance to assume that there

is always something left

unsaid.

We could be just standing

There are just standing there

in motions of the head that look

over the shoulder just to see who just walked in

again,

and again I adjust my seat

and wonder why

it is that people

thought Sinatra

knew what to do when

a heartache he’d never let heal

fires up again, giving him the edge of hurt and angst

and a sorrow that made him the envy of

every guy who wished he could just

keep getting

laid no matter how many times

he was slapped in the face at

the end of so many evenings

in a tavern

where the juke is stacked

with sad stories you

have to pay to hear.

Sinatra, I remember,

let’s do this like Frank,

so I light a cigarette,

grab my drink

and wave to you

to offer you a seat at the

mahogany bar,

so glad to see you

that I wave too hard and slap

the woman next to me.

She drops her drink,

and her husband drops me,

and I stare at the ceiling, Formica gleaming

in a blue light of

faux grotto interior,

“Frank, you magnificent bastard,

what was it you wanted to be

when you grew up?”