is gone,
gone the way
of Butch Casidy
and Classic Rock;
of Kennedy
and the kin
of my childhood.
In its place
Redbones,
Cajun culinary
aromas,
and four bar blues,
bartenders who never
wear those
tight pegleg pants-
so there's that.
Never though did
I think
I'd see mukluk footed
waitresses rushing
table to table
with piping hot pots
of coffee for
Mom and Dad,
smiling that
commercial smile;
for snot-nosed
tag-a-longs who
would clearly
rather have
fast food meals
that promise
happiness
and a three inch
likeness of
the latest animated
film star.
No more Tall Boy
cans of beer,
even those that
perch at the bar
with feet resting
on yesterdays
brass rail are
catalogue boys-
Metros who drink
supposedly opium laced
liqueurs and
Redbull.
The Burrito is gone
for good or for bad,
but like new and future
ex-wives,
I embrace the change
for better or worse.
