It’s when the waitress at the Cloverleaf brings my eggs and smiles
with yellow teeth across the table
that I realize how much I hate you.
There’s only the two of us in this band, and you keep reminding me
that no one really cares what we play.
The waitress can’t be more than 19 but her face is caked
with lipstick and pie flour.
I can tell by the way she leans on the table and asks for your number
that she’ll never work anywhere else.
Tonight, when you fall onstage I will lift you.
Tonight, when she appears in the parking lot behind the club
I will go as far away as I can
and break bottles against the forgotten birth place
of Axl Rose, bite my tongue
when the bed next to mine squeaks and hum “Sweet Child o’ Mine”
into the nicotine stained carpet of the Super 8.
In the morning she’s gone. Your money is gone.
I wake to you smashing a toilet seat
against the bathroom wall so I grab the whiskey and turn up
the volume on the television
as Brave Heart screams for his homeland so loudly
that neither of us can hear the other weeping.