By Garth Upshaw

Jed’s a big guy, a linebacker gone to seed,
New jeans, button-down cream shirt. Nice.
Dante’s, close in on the second ring, has a heavy
Red-and-black theme. Natural-gas flames
Under a glass bar. Though the fire’s off.
Tuesday night. Early.

Open mic isn’t even in the main space.
The bartender jerks his head, uninterested, towards
A side room tucked away behind,
With its own tiny black stage, its own tiny bar.
A quartet of stools, half-a-dozen two tops.
Bonanza flickers soundlessly on the wall.

The emcee’s a short guy, full of manic energy,
Chip-on-the-shoulder vibes as he rattles off the
Rules. Five minutes. Hard limit. Be funny.
Don’t worry about the gravity.
He mocks Jed’s shirt.
You look like you’ve got a 401(k).

A young woman does a bit about one night
Stands. Vaginal discharge. What we’ll do when we get there.
A blond, milk-fed guy, dented guitar,
Sings a story song about a terrible blind date.
The emcee does another, even angrier, diatribe. Says we
Can catch him every other Thursday at Kell’s.

Jed’s material is solid, but his demographic is
Old-school, nostalgia porn. He gets off a bit
About flying cars, and I laugh.

No one else is there to laugh, though, and
They sit like punished schoolchildren
Waiting their turn to shine in the light.

Meanwhile, Indians have taken Laura, and
Hoss is missing.

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Garth Upshaw lives in Portland, Oregon, with his super-genius sweetie-pie, three precocious grown children, and five enthusiastic chickens. His work has appeared in Clarkesworld Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Bristol Noir, and other fine venues. He has an MA in Theoretical Mathematics and loves carving spoons, bicycling, and curling up with a good book.