a writing moment

it was quiet at the center--
gay center that is, over on 13th--
clean coffee shop, empty at the hour
I was ready to write
when she stormed in
a chatty, catty transexual
she hijacked all us in
with her gestures and stories
she knew everyone and everything gay
after all, she was almost sixty six
and had made all our histories
come alive in her prime
and made trannies possible
she protested in Albany
for the rights to get boobs;
she knew Madonna, Michael Jackson and Cher
when AIDS was in, it all the rage in the town
she could tell us about St Vincent's
when no-one else cared.

And she could regale us with stories
but, why? no one listens
and it was getting late anyway
and she hated the center--
everyone there's so fake
well, except the barista
and the tranny just to my right
and all these young artist
oh what a waste, look at Beyonce
she prefers the JLo-
not just because she was half Latina & Italian
(I had pegged her for Jewish--I don't know why)
no one is a diva--not like Diana, Tina Turner, Madonna

I gotta go, she said, I hate all these gay men
(what?-- I thought) they all hate us trannies
they want manly men and even manly themselves
and in the end they're down on their knees sucking dick
(well, duh!)
Personally, she said, I prefer the real men
I don't want my man to want to touch cock
"I'm outta here honey," she said to the barista
"you're the only real person here. Love the head rag."
"You're a Latino, right," she addressed me
"Nice chatting with you."
{Like it was all news to me}