open mike

you listen
to her sing,
and she
has the voice
of an angel.
an angel gargling
broken
glass and whiskey.
she has blue
eyes. cat eyes.
and heavy hands on
her guitar
strings. spanking
out the chords,
plucking notes
painfully,
one after another.
grimacing as she does.
her feet move like
chickens on a june
bug, tapping
in every which
direction, out of
sync, out
of time, completely
out of her
musical mind.
and when it's over
you stand and applause,
everyone does,
those that haven't
left. happy
that it's over.