At The Speakeasy (74)

an idiot woman
       with
the vodka mouth:
write a poem about me!
    she breathes (heavy)
in the thick barroom.

    then she stumbles
from my table-
a mother, and everybody’s
lover. pinches and high
school stares swim around her.
and more vodka spilling
on the floor
   like dark dreams
   or a slipping past,
to the floor
to be soaked-up,
to be stomped by the feet
of a thousand futures.

an idiot man
    with
the beer breath
scrawls a poem
on a match book (of course)

    then flings it
to the floor. another door
is opened–another masterpiece
finished . . .