Akeith Walters

Waiting for Pete


Another iced whiskey wets my hand
as I linger in the bar’s twilight,
listening to a Dolly Parton crossover.


The sweet scented blend of a Marlboro
and reefer drifts by


and I turn to see Pete walk in,
his rose polo
and fat ass
hanging loose and untucked.


No one knows what he does when not sitting on his stool
with his back to the door,


with no more than beer or two to hold the world at bay.


Young drunks,
who sway in clusters,
listen to his stories,
the grainy black and white ones,
of stonewall chances taken in back alleys and secret bars,
in secluded parks and rusty boxcars,


before civil rights became the rights of everyone,


except for the few who wore loose rose polos
with a bangle or two
and cowboy boots
with high polished heels.