poetry by j matthew waters

the wisdom that is Bob

I heard they were selling tickets to Mars
down at the corner of Oak and Divisadero
but by the time I got wind of what was
going down it was too late
the little bastards were all sold out

soon thereafter I was relating my
disappointment to Bob over a few beers
and a few shots down at The Page

meanwhile on the big screen Giants
score ten plus runs in the fourth
off the Met’s lefty starter
the scattered-brained afternoon crowd
going just a little bit too ballistic

you know old boy
(Bob goes on to say)
there are no tickets to Mars
it’s just some punk rock concert

yes I say in between swigs
whatever you say Bob

august two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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