Ordinary things in my pocket

Ordinary things in my pocket

It was just an ordinary day with ordinary things in my pocket. Nothing from Africa or any weird or wonderful location or even roadhouse or saloon I might have stopped in along the way and passed an hour sitting at the bar nursing a strong black coffee with half and half from small sealed plastic containers with just enough in each one for a small cup of coffee so I always use two.

Not like yesterday listening to the jazzy cool juke box the bartender fed every hour or so because there were only regulars in the bar at noon on a weekday and they rarely put money in the jukebox except on weekends when setting the right tone and establishing their turf in the corner of the room was a minor distraction to an otherwise blissful day of drinking beer and smoking cigarillos. The old men at the end of the bar, all white and gray and sagging and louder than they need to be at times but mostly quiet, drinking.

I wasn't in that place or any other roadhouse or saloon along the way. I was in my old small room and brother it can get cold in February, in the city, when you have just ordinary things in your pocket, no hundred dollar bills or platinum American Express cards with no limit large enough to walk into a showroom, and drive away. Only ordinary things in my pocket, here in winter waiting.