Tonight at the Tune Inn,
A neighborhood dive bar,
I met a young man,
With afro-esque curly long hair,
Pulled back into a loose ponytail,
Who told me that he
And his "partner,"
Who shared a new baby:
A "surprise,"
Had an agreement,
Such that he, on his way home
From who-knows-where
On a Monday night,
Should stop at said Tune Inn,
Round the corner,
For a Miller Lite or three,
Whilst she stays home
With said love-child,
So that he could tell me
About his need for space,
And show me that he
Had no ring on his finger.
I said to him,
With saccharine voice,
That I hoped
That his wife-I-mean-partner
Was having a nice evening
Nursing their screaming
Bundle of joy
Whilst he talked to me.
"Oh, it's fine with her,"
He asserted, searching my eyes.
Unable to sufficiently mask judgment,
And disgust
Of a pansy responsibility-shirker,
I whispered more loudly
Than I should have
Behind a tattered, crumpled
Paper napkin
To Cousin Steve, beside me
At the bar's corner,
That Mr. 'Fro
Was a deadbeat dad -
Not that I know
Just what that means...
Subsequently,
Mr. 'Fro asked what was the problem.
I lied that the French fries
Were too greasy.
He-of-hairproduct-need
Later changed barstools
So that he was instead sitting
Three seats away.
