They mostly come a night, light-haired strangers, brawling all
their way from the shore, looking for something here among the old oaks and
tired elms that line these streets, like vampire bats scared of dawn, flapping
their wings as if to take flight, complaining about the details, the lack of
quality of companions forced to settle for when management finally closes the
doors,.
They come here from miles away just ahead of storm clouds
and promises of snow storms they won’t want to get stranded in, the pecking
order at the bar in that last hour, the smooth talkers, the shy guys with bulges
in their pants, the overly made up women with smudged lipstick after being out
in someone’s car, the dance floor strewn with survivors, the ones who can last
long enough, stay just enough sober, to win the door prize, although many go
home alone, the jealous boyfriends who find their girlfriends pressed against
the men with pointy shoes and drenched in Aqua Velvet, the money changers, the
horny bartenders (men and women) who skim off the best and leave the rest, the
final call, and then the stumble out the hall into the hours before dawn, the
first fleck of snow on the windshields during the ride to Tonnelle Avenue, smearing
the occupancy lights although there is always a vacancy, motel rooms with dirty
sheets, used towels and no hot water, but with mirrors on the ceiling and even cable
TV with porn, night coming into day, waking with a stranger, and then, the
lonely ride home, alone, lipstick on men’s jockey shorts, men will keep secret
from their wives or mothers, never confessed to their priests.
No comments:
Post a Comment