eight to the bar

she knocked and she waited,

she could taste

 

the cigar smoke that crept

up two flights

 

of stairs to find her mouth,

 

inner monologue from her

boyfriend played

 

like a dime store novel

stuck together

 

with chewing gum;

 

she hadn’t had it in a

couple of days

 

and began raking her

polished nails

 

up and down cheap wood,

 

“come on Harry, let me in

before I dig through

 

this door!!” 

 

“alright, already, keep your

panties on!”

 

“that’s what you think!”

 

the metal framed bed and springs

bounced up and down

 

like a five and dime horse

with a bad saddle;

 

while she’s sleeping, spooned

up next to him,

 

his hand reaches around on a

night stand

 

searching for the time, “shit,

I’m gonna be late!”

 

he jumps outta bed, pulls his

wrinkled suit on,

 

grabs his horn and hat,

 

throws her a goodbye kiss

scurries down

 

stairs, exits the dive and jumps

into a passing hack,

 

traffic backs up like a city

sewer,

 

“damn!!”;

 

late for the audition, gets

closed-lined,

 

leaves, his chin dragging along

dirty shoe printed sidewalks,

 

no money for

 

public transportation

evicted from a room

loses his squeeze,

 

now sleeps in a door frame

with rusted nails

 

and old paint,

 

blowing eight to the bar.

 

Copyright © 05/26/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

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