Robbie Red Boots
The waitresses all called
him Robbie Red Boots.
Like, who goes to a night
club, rain or shine, summer
or winter, looking like he
just crawled out of bed
and dressed himself in
the dark, then put on
the first pair of footwear
he could find by the door
and sneaks out into the night.
In those days, there were real
bands and none of the girls
had the nerve to ask him
why he was taking notes,
why he always sat at the same
two top nearest the door,
only came for the last sets,
drank the same thing, house
white. It’s not like he was a
one and done, no tip grifter,
not at all, quite the opposite
in fact. Whatever, it takes
all kinds, they said after a year
or so of seeing him. Turns out
he always dressed that way.
Wrote an Arts and Entertainment
thing for the local rag and those
notes were for reviews. Rumor
was he had some major paper
bylines, once upon a time,
but he blew it on the booze.
It was hard to imagine Robbie
Red Boots in the fast lane but
it was all there, in black and white,
in the obit he wrote himself.
Local writer dies in late night
car crash. You never know.