Mean Streets

Days we’d flip the songs
on the juke box at the Don’s Burger Villa
in the heart of the heart
of Silicon Valley looking for Little Walter
and His Night Cats
walking the dog down from Memphis or Chicago,
surviving on chili cheese dogs
and a frenzy of aphoristic density.

Nights, when we could no longer
count on television
for the clear expression of mixed emotions,
we blew a lot of second chances
on misty champagne kisses
aspiring to the condition of music.

R. D. Girard | Mudlark No. 21
Contents | Ground Control to Major Tom