Flash friday practice II, again, apologies, I've been self prompting too long in Flash Friday

“My Jesus H one eyed jack of Christ
Born thorny on the tree, there’s the only rub;
My star spangled bananer and me …”

Coffee mugs thudded on the table. Open fucking mike night. Bad enough they let the kids from the prep school come down, it’s gotta break some kind of curfew thing or other, but theme night? Famous Tourettes Lyrics. Dylan Thomas wouldn’t be caught dead, again, drinking coffee in a perfectly good bar.

“Barista!” The kid had the right sleeve missing from his jacket and school patch sewn upside down. What a fucking rebel. I growled.
“Barista!” Again.
“Kid, I’m giving you a chance to hit puberty. I’m going to pretend that guy over there is Joe Barista and that you aren’t shouting at me like your wet nurse maid.”
“Um, can I get a double espresso … please? Sir?”
“You want anything in it?”
“Really?”
“No. Ten bucks.”
“But …”
He gave me a twenty I politely told myself to keep the change.

I liked the next guy, he was a local. He did that Shakespeare sonnet with grunts. Round here tourettes ain’t funny. And he kept the meter, sounded like a guy playing a melody on an acoustic while pounding out the beat with his palm. Tomorrow he’s going to begging for change. He’ll say it’s for a burrito and the first buck and a quarter will be.

The kids will be cramming for a trig test or something over eggs Florentine. I ain’t saying the only real artist is a starving one, I’m just saying when you have to beg for a burrito you learn how to keep the beat. William Carlos Williams kept his day job, TS Eliot quit his. Both of them are dead. You can check if you want, but I’ve got ten bucks, now, says neither skull has spinach in it’s teeth.