If the world ended tonight,
And the sky fell from the weight of the satellites,
Where would its shrapnel find you?
You who party-hops,
You who never lindy-hops with me, upon request.
You call it ridiculous nostalgia, you call me diluted
And trendy and say I look stupid
With red lipstick on.
You know too much about coffee beans,
Che Guevara, guerilla warfare and women’s rights.
You make me nervous.
I keep waiting for you to slip up,
Spit or scratch, show you’re human
To no avail.
If the world ended tonight,
And the ground crumbled in from toxic waste
Buried bellow our towns,
Would it find you a beer-guzzling spectator
At some cheap peep-show?
Of course not.
You and your raver mentality.
Lousy, pretentious junkies clatter up next door.
I hate you because

perfect eyes and little lips
make me love you.
The singer threads her way around the dimly lit tables
like a moth
or a runaway love letter, weaving in the wind
And perches up on the stage, right behind a piano.

Her eyes run around the room,
Quickly tracing the faces she knows, taking in the ones she doesn't.
She clears her throat, introduces herself, and begins a song.

Her voice dances gently down and around the piano melody,
Recalling fragments of childhood friendships, of catastrophe, of contagious smiles

She finishes up. Her eyes sweep the room, looking again at faces she knows and faces she doesn't.
She can feel all the eyes on her; they are silent and pleading, but for what?
She makes a little joke. She gets back a little laughter.

Sitting at the second table to her right, I sip my cheap beer
And wish I had an upbeat comeback to shout, something to lighten the mood
But my heart is still swaying under her spell.
After pouring memory and feelings out over us, like snowflakes,
How strange that she would be nervous.

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