The Story of the Twenty Percent Tippers


He plays the place
on his guitar,
Warrenville, Scranton,
the center of this night,

but always in New York
he sings, or screams, 
or concedes to pretty voices
as he plays the place,
plainly playing, so we can see
the dust on the street,
the wet leaves.

He plays for us
his songs for her,
who stands in the corner
handing out his flyers.
"You watch band tonight.
You see very good."

The staff divides her body,
notes hung like jewelry,
obscuring her,
becoming her,
as we become her,
hearing her songs.

But she is not so still,
so strong, as geography,
and cannot hold us long,
like a dream we are forgetting,
a dream of Warrenville
where important men
tip twenty percent,
and all that's left is
a country song she writes herself.

"I know I know
everybody happy now
you dancing with Helen
so beautiful
but fifteen year
fifteen year
and he will be left me
just like that."

He plays the place,
Hong Kong, Flushing,
Chinatown, a bowl of rice,
but just like that
a record skipped
in Warrenville,
in Paradise.


Donald Zirilli
January 9, 2000