It’s the Lou Rawls
they’re playing,
which at first I mistake
for Barry White,
Lou Rawls and the rain, perhaps,
that entices me to stay inside,
ignoring the 47 inch screens
lining every wall,
muted today for Lou Rawls,
the pinball machines,
sports of all sorts,
tennis of all sorts,
grooving to “you’re gonna
miss my loving,”
pulling out my notebook and,
while I’m waiting
for my boy’s Akido class
to end, in spite of the tennis,
I write this tiny poem
and dink a beer.
michael jarmer 