if it’s raining, I must be in the right place.
a good story should have slow headlights drifting through
a familiar, bleak loneliness. shady characters simmering
in the cold cruel rain, on a night that tries hard to drag itself
out of the dirt. but it never does.
she was just another dame in a divebar, sad eyes & pretty.
waiting for a guy whose name she didn’t know yet.
any guy. or me.
I walked over & told her she needed a drink, had the bartender
fill her glass before she could object. the vampish songbird on
the jukebox, backed up by a drowsy combo, laid a mellow number
on us. it was blue, & it was very good.
we drank our drinks & made some vague conversation, two storm-tossed
castaways trying to hustle each other. she’d get a couple drinks outa me,
a few smokes. I’d tell her she was beautiful, how I never met anyone like
her. sweet, seductive lies, & she’d know they were, but it wouldn’t matter.
she’d get a few hours in a stranger’s bed, away from the angry rain & the
pistol-shot sorrow of her life.
me? I’d get the persuaded learning of her body, the sex I needed to hold
back the desolate night. sex that was obscene & glorious, & kept the rain
just inches away.
after that, we lay tangled, in the lazy heat of each other…
a dame always wants to hear poetry, so I tell her what
my heart remembers –
the saddest poem ever writ is this: ‘I love you’ …
(Artist: Eric Antoine)