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





late for the audition, gets



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®



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