back in the days of the twenty-cent burger
a dime got you three minutes on a pay phone
and three dimes got you a frosted mug of draft beer
and a bad number in their lottery got you shipped off to their war

and Trailways had a bus stop at a gas station in an out of the way town
every other Thursday they would drop off
an old grandmother back from visiting her grand kids
or a life insurance salesman following up on a lead
and sometimes a bus rat with a thirst for a beer

and one week you’re that bus rat
hair down to your shoulders and a satchel full of nothing
a handful of dimes in your pocket
you throw them on a worn bar top like they were magic beans
you hope they grow into vines that snake into the sky
but you won’t mistake them for a stairway to heaven

the bartender smokes Old Gold cigarettes and you bum one
an old gal on a barstool gives you one hell of an evil eye
the beer arrives in its frosted mug and the juke box coughs up a Lefty Frizzel
and you climb those vines into the clouds on a forever lost Thursday afternoon