At The Speakeasy (74)
Tuschen
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 . . .