Notes from the wall in the back of the coffee shop.
Saturday night. You told the best joke about a bassoon I have ever heard, then a guy dropped a keg on his foot and you got him a chair. I never got your name.
I was the one in paint-stained overalls holding somebody's cat. This board is the only place I know to look.
Thursday, around five. I asked what page and you said 212. I said something stupid about the weather. You laughed anyway.
I am in the back booth most Fridays, the one with the cigarette burn shaped like Ohio.
We both reached for it at the same time and you let me have it. I want to give it back, or at least buy you a coffee.
Tall, silver rings, you laughed at the jester on the alley poster. I said nothing because I was busy being nervous.
Your friend's birthday. You played the whole first Ramones record on a cushion and a bucket and I clapped the loudest. I have the bucket now. Long story. It's yours if you want it.
