Clean me up.

 

 

 (Suzanne Kulperger photo)

 

If I’m lucky enough to die in the right place, here’s what I’d like them to do:

Wash my body thoroughly - wash off the thirty five years of sawdust - wash off the two years of restaurant kitchen grease - wash off the eight months of night shift fry-o-lator oil - wash off the year of taxi driving grit - wash off the year-and-a-half of machine shop grime - wash off the four years of charcoal, ink, paint and clay.

When that’s all gone, the scars will show. The scars will tell their little stories from the first to the last.

 

5W, 2X20

How big is the big night?  How off is the off-night?

How sweet is the limelight, or would it be sour?
How far from the big deal, from the city that never sleeps?
How big is the free meal for us hungry little peeps?
Playing our songs, near empty bar in the off season - she and her party of four, corner booth all to themselves.
Two thirds of the trio, we were doing an earnest version of a Dylan classic
when she walked by and said “…I like what you’re doing”.

Even without the two twenties, the five words would’ve been enough.
After all, we split the tips three ways - buy a drink or two at the bar and there ya go.
But to be able to say - even years afterwards - that on a dark off-season night in a mostly empty bar
“...Patti Smith put two twenties in our tip jar.” 

Five words and two twenties.