Serenity Walker
Spiked with caramelized
tipped hair, the lead singer
sat at cherry countertops.
The jukebox sputtered,
sharp overtones rising
like a Sunday-school church choir.
I slid on the stool beside him.
A bead of sugar stained
the rim of his drink. Caked rock’n’roll red,
my head thudded against my palm.
“Would ya order me a drink?”
Riddled with rings
he drummed, knuckles
to the bar. He waved at the bartender.
“The usual.”
Tattoos peeked from rips
in his jeans. Chains
snaked from his pockets
and through his belt loops.
I bounced my foot against his stool.
Would we have an Elvis impersonator
with tin cans sounding like broken church
bells in a Disney movie? I’d wear a busty,
white jumpsuit while he would flaunt
his leather jacket and laced boots.
The bartender returned
with our drinks. The singer handed
me the tall glass, our fingers touching.
“One tall glass of tap water for the lady.”
The Tributary 