With my thumb and index finger I held two sides of a copper coin together. Kept them together as I walked down the wet cement sidewalks towards the pink lights of the bar up ahead. Pushed them tight against each other as I climbed the black and white squared stairs to the upstairs. Sitting down I lost concentration as I ordered another drink, let the coin slip, a millimeter crawled between my fingers its many legs shucking and jiving to the clink clinking of empties on the glass table top. Three burgers I ate, two ales I drank, and one night shifted into a blur.
I ambled toward the jukebox shouting Dinosaur Jr. through its ears as its maw opened for money, but it wouldn't take my pressed together low-fi coin.
A face to a monument, a face to a monument, a back face to the service entrence. And I danced with one hand occupied with the pressure of holding everything together against the garage guitars and the loose drum slaps.
I danced with one hand held high over my head against the rushing crowds that threatened to bop in, that jostled against my alabaster coat, that smiled as the beer rushed from their mouths to their stomachs to their heads.
Eyelids waved from a distance, pupils looked from afar, my coin held high dropped into my pockets and only a miracle held it together as I found it wrong side up the next morning.
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