His face is distorted—look at how the
guy stretches his mouth as wide as he can
and ROARS it out, expelling his breath in gales
of sound, slapping his hand on his brown double knit cuffed
trousers
bending back and forth from the waist
HOWLING
pounding the green rippled linoleum table top
the golden suds in the fluted beer glasses shaking in symphony.
Who can resist a guy who laughs like that?
Everyone is laughing.
Old men’s eyes crinkle into olives gleaming with tears;
young guys in black T-shirts, bearded, bedraggled, hug their beers
chuckle, check out their friends, compare laughs,
start to guffaw—slowly, near noncommittal grunts at first
that stutter, then roll over into rousing brouhaha;
three guys, they look like plumbers, joiners, or tapers,
hold big fat beer guts, wear baseball hats, grin gleefully,
look around the room with obvious satisfaction,
making sure everyone gets the joke;
the waiter grins a glassy chesire cat grin
that is nothing less than a lazy laugh—but hey—
I’ve never seen the waiters in this joint smile before—
who can resist a guy who laughs like that?

(This marks the end of my third book “Who Can Resist A Guy Who Laughs Likes That.” Tomorrow I start my fourth book “The World Is So Poetic.” Thank you to followers readers both!)

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