Late Night, Denny's

So, I'm sitting in a Denny's working on a paper, and there are some really weird people nearby having a rather crude conversation. Oh, wait, they're just going. Well, Ben Stephens encouraged me to write a poem about them, and I did.


In the face of some mysteries,

even the greatest minds must

stand and simply stare:

Why would a good God

allow pain to enter his created

world? Do animals feel pain?

What lies beyond death?

But beyond all these puzzles,

lies the question,

what the hell are you two

talking about?

I just learned you’re 21,

at least,

as you have

Four Guinness,

Five … Somethings,

Five Rolling Rock,

One Heineken.

When you’re drunk, things

 are better than

they really are,

You say, sagely,

though I wonder if anyone

believes you’re older than 16,

because I haven’t heard

such drivel since leaving

puberty behind.

Also, from whence did

this friendship spring?

Your buddy, with his

Aerosmith roadie hair,

jeans jacket with sleeves

removed, saying,

Note where my thumb is,

and you say,

so he was grabbing your ass?

This friend of yours, seems

so much older, and way

creepier. Where did you meet?

Please, I understand

the elements that constitute

the poetry of the seventeenth century,

the thoughts of great authors           

from Homer to David Foster Wallace,

the musical evolution from Bach

to the Beatles,

but I have no idea

what the hell

you two

are saying.

And you know,

I’m fine with that.