FUNKY GUITAR

The teen stripper I met last night
didn’t want to go out back
to give hand jobs
but
the manager finally convinced her that
“the customer is always right,”
and now I’m feeling all right
as I return to the seat of the action.

And I’m getting looks
from others in the club
like my toupe isn’t on straight
or my eyebrows are drawn on wrong
but I smirk past them all
and the guitar gets a little funky.

I feel like dancing
with a waitress from a former Soviet Republic
in skintight leopard heels
and luckily,
I see multiple options
and I’m pumped.
It’s well past a new day,
but I’m just getting started
and can rock on far beyond dawn.

“Your name isn’t really Dawn!”
I shout over the booming bass drum
and the waitress just nods
excitedly
while jewelry jangles and boobies bounce.
This is the place
and I am the guy
and it won’t get any better than this
and the guitar gets a little funky.

Though the room shutters for the night
and the talent disperses
and the guitar amp turns to off
I am ready for more.
I have danced over dawn.
I will dance until dead
but now, I’m here
alive and kicking
beating back breakfast-babes
and going on
into the morning.

Behind my eyes
blinkered by bright new sun
the guitar remains funky.