(no subject)
on coney island avenue, there is a run down irish pub. yesterday, old time brooklynites gathered there to cheer for the jets, then raucously drink away the pain of the their loss. one man had a steelers beer koozie, which he certainly brought from home. the drinks were cheap and the juke box, my lord the juke box. the old men sang along to springsteen, raising their drinks, and the women with short hair danced to nine to five. in the back of the bar, when the music was right, i danced slow, spinning out then back into brian's arm. one of the old timers walked by and said you two look great together. you should get married. then, raising his hands over our heads, he said i'll marry you right now. every so often a mouse ran out from the kitchen to eat a crumb of food on the bar floor. and just before we left the man who tried to marry us made everyone join hands to sing country road, take me home.