I stop at Frank’s Grille,
full of rednecks but worth
my long-haired risk since
the cheap draft beers make
Nautilus mugs look like shots.
I imagine the guy in Stamford whose
driveway I’d helped pave walking in.
He’d have to be wary in this joint as
fellow drinkers are likely share the same
mind as the boss’s douchebag brother
who performed his limp-
wrist and lisping routine
every time the gent who was
very generous with his Lowenbrau,
came out to inspect our progress.
I don’t recall how it came up but
the fellow said lacking a high school
diploma hadn’t held him back.
He had a big job with an airline.
U.S. chess champ Bobby Fischer,
a dropout himself is the news
competing against a Russian.
America’s patriots hate Bobby’s
lack of sportsmanship, doesn’t
care if he wins or loses.
I need a grand for tuition
and I’m out of work.
It’s not just my part in ripping
out foliage on our next job,
widening a long driveway
leading to a ritzy Colonial
that was supposed to remain
that got me expelled.
The Nazi reported me
for paving while drunk
instead of the boss’s brother.