Crooner

Not sure by what power I
found myself in a corner booth, no
drink, too cold. A couple of
patrons were looking down on their
luck, worse for where they  
were than me. Two tens in a
billfold, not a wall light paying
me time of day. There was the
as-to-be-expected usuals:
truckers, homewreckers, desperates,
and a handful of a young thing. Her
hair, muck-colored, parted over her
shoulders, looked almost obsidian in
swathes of lamp light, breasts
hiked up to her collar. She would
occasionally glance, me or the
sticker-stamped guitar case keeping this
booth occupied - me or my worth.
Truth is, if she'd heard my purpose, wouldn't do  
much good, got too many parts missing from me, too
much damage, chips of paint chunked
out and strings all kinds of
discordant in the winter cold. Guitar
here's fine though, she's alright,
just enough for me.