Ribs,
Pulled pork,
Barbeque chicken
Filled my plate, my stomach.
My ears were filled by
The Eagles singing
About living in
That fast
Lane.

A
Paper
Tablecloth
Was my Tabula Rosa,
A
Crayon
Was a pen,
Was then MY pen.

Barbeque with poetry
(Hold the LSD):
My soul, gut
Full.
I smiled,
Seeing words
Dancing across
The brown paper.

Was
All so
Funny, so
Nicely surreal.
A blissful journey:
Barbeque and poetry
(That was now my LSD).
Muses dancing with
Me in Callears as
I ate, indulged
With these
Folks.

The
Quiet
Couple
At the next
Table, enjoying
Their Texas Briskets
As I watched their meal,
Watching their hands
Talk with forks
And nodding
Their heads
(A “Yes”
Now).

There’s
The family:
Dad, Mom, Sis,
And Sis gazing at
Their menus. Sis One
Has a Smartphone and
Is again checking
For some thing
Soon ignored
As Mom
Talks.

And then
The Eagles sang,
The background music
Like a lyrical invitation
For my crayon pen
To dance out
Words.

Whilst
My world
Was prepared
For Halloween,
For Smartphones,
I was just living poetry
And looking beneath
The masks all over
My world today
(Again, again)
As I ate ribs
And was.

My
Poetry:
My mask.
My worlds:
My salvation,
A perfect balance.
Writing is straddling
Both waking and dreams
Both thinking and feeling
Both movement and stillness.
Barbeque, tunes, and poems
Amidst plastic plates
Will eternally
Kick ass.