Inspiration for today’s poem comes fresh off yesterday’s Poetry Broadcast by Billy Collins, beginning at the 2:41 mark. View it here:
Mea Culpa
On yesterday’s poetry broadcast,
with “Blue Cee” digging its way
out of his Marshall bluetooth
speaker, Billy Collins
recounted the time
he and his bad-news buddy,
Tom "Trouble" Wallace, were removed
from a club by none other than
Charles Mingus himself.
And, as interesting as that story was,
I couldn’t get past the fact that old
Wildcat Collins, old Mad Dog Bill,
was man enough to let bygones
be bygones by playing Crazy Charlie’s
hit tune for all the world to enjoy.
So, in the interests of growth
and accountability, allow me
to make amends with the following:
To my good buddy, Wild Bill Torres,
I apologize for tunneling through
the drywall of your closet with
the kicktail of your skateboard
shortly after we had graduated
high school,
emerging thirty minutes later
in the living room
of your rented apartment.
To my pal, No-Neck Big Dave,
please forgive my tenacity
in attempting (three times)
to enter the patio of
Madison Bear Garden in Chico
by scaling the fence. Know
that it was the booze, not me.
To Martial-Arts Mark, bouncer
at the Joe Walsh concert
at the Strand in Redondo Beach,
thank you for promptly folding
my arm behind my back
and marching me into the lobby
to set me straight about
fire code regulations and why
exactly I could not sit in the aisle
and, when I broke free,
thanks again for not
using your billy club
to break my kneecaps
as you were trained.
Your restraint is much appreciated.
To the girls
of the Swinging Door Saloon,
please accept this mea culpa
for slurping up your beauty
all day and night, only to argue
my bill, calling you a no-good,
thieving, purse-padding, drunk-rolling,
smoking-hot-fox of a cheat,
and thanks also,
for telling Big Red,
old Iron Knuckles himself,
to go easy on me as
he threw my ass to the curb.
Finally to you, Reader,
my newest, baddest-ass,
most-poetry-loving, least-highfalutin,
nine-ninety-nine-spending
honest-to-goodness friend,
I apologize for making you
read this woeful
letter of regret, this sorry
excuse for a poem
all the way through,
even though the payoff
was minimal
and you received no mention
until its bitter end.