7 thoughts on “Tom

  1. A cab combs the snake,
    Tryin' to rake in that last night's fare,
    And a solitary sailor
    Who spends the facts of his life
    like small change on strangers…
    Paws his inside pea coat pocket
    for a welcome twenty-five cents,
    And the last bent butt from a package of Kents,
    As he dreams of a waitress with Maxwell House eyes
    And marmalade thighs, with scrambled yellow hair.
    Her rhinestone-studded moniker says, "Irene"
    As she wipes the wisps of dishwater blonde from her eyes
    And the Texaco beacon burns on,
    The steel-belted attendant with a 'Ring and Valve Special'…
    Cryin' "Fill'er up and check that oil.
    You know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil."
    The early mornin' final edition's on the stands,
    And that town cryer's cryin' there with nickels in his hands.
    Pigs in a blanket sixty-nine cents,
    Eggs, roll 'em over, and a package of Kents,
    Adam and Eve on a log, you can sink 'em damn straight,
    Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can't be late.

    And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamond
    Across a cash crop car lot
    filled with twilight Coupe Devilles,
    Leaving the town in a-keeping
    Of the one who is sweeping
    Up the ghost of Saturday night…

    1. That's Tom Waits' poem "The Ghost of Saturday Night (after hours at Napoleone's Pizza House)" which was in National City CA, the working class suburb of San Diego where he (partly) grew up.

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