That was Eugene—the place where farm boys came
To see tatted girls clicking toe rings on concrete.
The ground was chalked with the phrase
End world hunger over a picture of the earth on the sidewalk,
Where parking meters sprouted out of Africa and Asia
And begged for time along with the bums
At their storm drain roots.
Café Paradiso could only sell atmosphere at no charge.
It was the pavilion of empty hands that
Searched the night to fill themselves with other hands
And always bypassed the dollar bagels and americanos.
We laughed towards the mic where the fat man
With the palm sized ukulele
Screeched indiscernible lyrics.
A hobo in the front would clap his hands
With beaming gums, his upturned jowls working against
The sagging of his
Furrowed brows and scowl lines.
At Paradiso, gypsy queens would duck and weave
Through tables—their shawls of muslin
And bits of dreadlock grazed our faces.
Showing brown teeth, their shining eyes
Looked for love under puffs of smoke
And wheezing tokes.
They would search the night for the kissing lips
That were preoccupied by bottles in paper bags.
And faded pictures of Marilyn Monroe.-Kent Reister
