Thump of Britney Spears’ Crazy pounds rafters.
Fifteen gay people gab in groups.
The bartender sports a tanning-booth bronze,
hides eyes behind over-sized sunglasses.
Weather shifts as abruptly as a clicked-off
phone call. All fifteen people move
to the driest area of the patio, re-group, chatter
louder than the thunderous deluge.
An off-duty barmaid named Megan, stops
at my table, impressed when I tell her I’m a writer.
She flits through a brief conversation, invites me
to stop by when she’s working.
Soon after, a nameless man, bejeweled in gold,
bracelets, rings, necklace, launches into a diatribe
about two daughters, both unemployed teachers.
He throws me a hasty goodbye, bounces toward
the parking lot.
It’s a little more crowded now. Rain, louder
than a drum circle, beats off a corrugated,
aluminum roof, drowns out human voices.
It’s the first time I’ve been in a gay bar
in over a year. I came because I hate Sundays,
and this place obliterates one with camaraderie
and ready friendship. The disenfranchised extend
easy welcomes.
Deafening rain continues, but a hint of incipient
sun beams across a string of rainbow banners,
increasing the chance for an actual rainbow.
