The High Road
Broken Bells | MySpace Music Videos
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He was the very definition of a varmint:
a small troublesome animal.
His eyes were like two dollops of thick, black tar
and he had a habit of licking his lips with every pause,
and he paused a lot.
It took him darn near half a minute
just to say hello.
I stopped him mid lick. “What can I do for ya?” I asked.
“Oh, not a lot.” he said.
“Well then,” I said, “I guess that’s that.”
and turned to walk away.
“Hold on (lick) there (lick, lick)” he called to me.
I paused, but kept my back to him.
“Where abouts do you keep the motor oil?”
“Third aisle,” I said, “next to the red funnels.”
“Thank you” I heard him lick before he clicked
and turned his heels to mosey on.
Customers. They sure get under my skin.
There was a time, not so long ago,
when I’d a shot me a cuss like that
quicker than he could lick.
But times are hard for gun slingers.
There ain’t too many left,
so I’ve traded in my pistol for a nametag
and my holster for an apron.
My boss is a slender fella,
slighter than the twitch
of a lizard’s tail,
but he’s meaner, I think,
than any barroom blowhard
I’ve ever sent to meet his maker.
Someday, if things ever change,
and slingers are again in high demand,
I’ll tender my resignation
with the smoke and heat of two barrels blazing
and say to hell with the 401-K.
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This one talks about her craft,
tells me she’s an artist
and how every head is a canvas.
She takes her time.
She looks things over.
She only speaks between the snips.
She places her palm on my head,
tilts me to the left then back to the right.
She gathers my hair in small, thin sheets.
I appreciate her focused passion,
how she wields her scissors like a brush,
but secretly pray she’s no Picasso.
And this one, the one with the spectacles,
she feeds me rumors
and quenches my thirst for gossip.
By the time my head feels new again,
she’s filled me in on a thing or two
about him and her and maybe you.
“Men may be snakes, but that girl there?”
she says to me, pointing with her comb,
“She’s a mongoose. Rikki-Tikki-Tavvi.”
I nod, pressing my lips together.
I trust her with my hair
but not with my secrets.
And that one? She flirts with me,
tells me little jokes, swats me on the shoulder,
runs her fingers cross my scalp.
I know it’s for the tips, but I don’t care.
For half an hour, I get to pretend,
tell myself that I’ve still got it.
I know I’m not the only one.
I’ve seen the lines, but I don’t mind.
Everyone needs to feel that way sometimes.
She’s not that good at cutting hair,
but she’s great at what she does
so I tip her a few extra dollars.
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The waitress says, “Hello, how are you?”
The diners do not reply.
They’re buried in their menus, selecting their sides.
Baked beans, carrots, cottage cheese.
So many things to choose from.
The waitress says, “How can I help you?”
One man raises an eye,
Then drops it back again to read about the meatloaf.
Onions, peppers, grade-A beef.
He thinks it sounds delicious.
The waitress grabs the silent air
And tucks it in her apron.
She’s buried in her future, selecting changes.
Brighter, bolder, jackass free.
So many things to long for.
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“This fish tastes fishy.” she says.
I chew my food.
“Did you hear me?” she says.
I nod my head.
“Taste it.” she says.
“I’d rather not.” I say.
So the fish tastes fishy,
The beef tastes beefy,
The fruit tastes fruity,
And the drinks are cold and wet.
I don’t see the problem.
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