Petite robe noire

Every once in a while I come by
to see if you've been drifting through
the black and white. I figure, just like the perfect poem,
good company is hard to find.

Makes me think poetry is easier to catch than to write.
There's enough here to light up a rainy night,
quench a thirsty thought, so I bust through
the lines like a woman on the prowl.

Too bad a great pair of legs doesn't mean much
when you're chasing the muse.
She runs, oh how she runs.
I watch her go and she is exquisite.

Maybe you've seen her
sitting in the smokey corner of a back alley dive,
having a stiff drink across from a fallen soldier
with a wicked appetite and a bad case of lonely.

Sometimes she is the moon, others the night
and when the darkness fits just right,
she is the stars.