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To see your poem, you will need to click "Comments" again.
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At the airport
ReplyDeleteDad and son in law chat amicably while dad eats a pre-flight snack .. A bowl of what looks like rice pilaf
Mom and daughter are listening while the daughter holds her baby in a baby Bjorn.
The baby is around six months old and is wearing a tiny pair of jeans.
The baby cries .. Looks like it's meal time.
The daughter fishes out a bottle of formula and hands over her little baby to her mom.
The baby is instantly soothed by grandma's loving touch and the bottle of formula.
The daughter looks on tears welling up in her big brown eyes while she wonders when she will get to see her mom next and when her baby will be this comfortable.
Just another day at the airport
I like the way the small details open up to a larger story. Makes me wonder if it's a security guard, a ticket counter person, or even one of the maintenance people. So many possibilities here...
DeleteGetting into the Club
ReplyDeleteThe summer rain finally got the better of me and I went back inside the bar. I thought about having a beer but decided instead on coffee. I seemed to be always trading bad habits, one for the other. Whatever. At least this wouldn't get me pulled over by the cops.
I asked the might-have-been-handsome-once bartender for a cup. He grunted something and picked up a clean but dingy looking cup. I dug a dollar out of my pocket and lay it on the bar.
"You're with the band, huh? That's your guitar over there?"
I turned and saw a skinny kid with greasy hair and a freshly pressed white shirt. He looked to be in his early twenties, but was much more animated and bright-eyed than I remember being at that age. Or ever.
I nodded and reached out to shake his hand. He took it and pumped energetically. His smile was as wide as Texas.
"You're a real musician! What's that like?" he asked. His excitement was contagious and I felt something shift inside me. It broke loose and slid away, like an avalance in a James Bond movie or the face of an iceberg in a global warming video.
He called me a "real musician."
And just like that, I was in the club.
Now, I didn't know this kid from Adam and he was certainly in no position to confer that title on me. But then, I thought, who was? Who declares "you are now a musician" or "you are now a stand-up comedian" or even "you are now a grown-up"?
And, just as quickly, I stopped thinking about that.
I knew better.
I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. He jumped up on the barstool next to me.
"Sure, sure!"
We talked for a while. He wanted to write. The Great American Novel. He had doubts about whether or not he was a real writer. He asked me when I knew I was a real musician.
I wanted to ask him what he meant by being a "real writer" or a "real musician." But I didn't. I knew that if I thought about it too hard, I would go back to being an "almost." Not a "wannabe" - that didn't fit. But an "almost." "Almost a musician." It had a ring to it. I didn't like the sound, but it did have a ring to it.
But no. Better to stop thinking about it.
And best not to talk about it. If nothing else, I didn't want to infect the kid.
I asked him, "do you write?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Then you are a real writer."
I stopped there and changed the subject. I didn't want him to argue about it.
Or to think about it too much.
He is a writer.
And I am a musician.
Yeah.
I am a musician.