DOPEY

It’s a frigging cold Saturday grooving deep into the night and this old bat shows up at the dive all dolled up to the nines. The loner sits at the counter, gobbles up a jumbo plate of junk food in a snap, drains down pints like a whale. Frets to grease-smear her shriveled pucker every couple of gulps. A solo-dolo clown grinning like Clarabelle Cow, staring vacuum-eyed into nothing and all over the place. The old goose blabbers on and on about some satin gloves and a mole (fat and hairy, I bet) on her right shoulder, and some bullshit like having to pick up flowers, or someone picking her up but leaving the flowers, or picking the flowers but leaving her behind. Man, give me a break––the clod has been blistering my ears all effing night.