Saturday, March 18, 2017
Why can't we have all night cafes with old books and a lazily plucking guitarist smelling of tobacco and Bukowski's poetry with a hat like Tom Waits and callused fingers, maybe one who never quite stands up straight?
He might, but effort's a costly thing when not for the purposes of pleasure, and the night, only lasts so long. (snap-quiet-snap)
And it all lit by an intermittently buzzing neon sign that says, "Gladys" or something with the image of a leg-lifting can-can dancer with a dusty black velvet choker round her buttermilk and cigars songbird neck (click-quiet-click) and heavenly notes that spill over regrets.
And a pool table where the overhead light reflects off of a tired dishwasher's misstruck 8-ball and the slap on the back with a, "You'll get 'em next time," followed by the crunch of a cockroach under the owner's fine faux leather loafer, and me leaving a few coins in a dented green metal ashtray, and the sound of these old shoes walking out the door? (Jingle-quiet...