black lace noir
I check my pocket for change, enough for a burger or
a shot. the burger won’t get me where the whiskey will.
bar is dark & smoky, if it wasn’t I’d be in the wrong story.
cheap liquor, but it makes a nice burn in my throat.
dame walks in. there’s always a dame. It’s why I hang out
in joints like this. she grabs a fistful of my trench coat.
‘I could use a drink mister.’
I say me too, you buyin? two, three minutes go by. she
says ‘oh, you were serious.’ checkmate. I always get
the Vassar types.
she snaps open her shiny little pocketbook, pulls out
somethin I ain’t seen in a long time, I think they call it
when we drink away the last of her lonely andrew, she
invites me to walk her home. I’d have preferred to pass
out in the gutter, but I figured I owed her for the drinks.
outside, the night is the perfect shade of dark, kinda night
they make poems out of. it’s the obscenity of it.
at her place , she unbuttons & heads for the bedroom,
comes back in an outfit that is light & lyrical, it coulda
been made outa stardust.
I tell her she shouldn’t offer a package like that to a stranger
she just met. she says ‘everyone I meet is a stranger when
I meet em.’
her lips are warm & wet on mine, & I figure I musta side-stepped
into somebody else’s romance, cause a bum like me doesn’t
rate a doll like her.
fairytale kisses, & a big bad moon to tell me it wasn’t a dream.
I could almost call her the name of my first crush back in high
school. I could almost call her Amy…
like I said, some nights are made for a poem.