The ticking of my Bulova timepiece
Causes my feet, cozied up inside my leather Spectators
To tap amongst the clinking and clanking
Of Sidecars sloshing, chilled in sugar-rimmed martini glasses

Mouths flap at the speed of sound
On the faces of flappers and gamblers, togged to the bricks
Coming together only to spill drink
Upon a dance floor of dead hoofers attempting the East Coast Swing

I follow trails of smoke
That hover around, gather and become
Plumes of gray soot, like the stack mouths of an oil refinery
Putting an otherwise sea of clear faces into smoggy brownness

The tsk-tsk-tsk of the big band hi-hats
Setting my eyes wild, and the upright bass fumbling with my heart rate
The swing of Benny Goodman, the clarinetist sending a wink my way
Scanning under my tilted fedora, my eyes hit a snag

Over the rim of a gin martini
Two perfectly symmetrical lips, deep red
A sharp contrast to milky white cheeks
And the beckoning in her eyes made me loosen my collar

A heat rising up within me, her every move mapped out
Only to make a man set aside all reason
Her presence made all else look like paper dolls,
Floating two-dimensionally, bending and falling

And it was then that I watched everything dissipate
Losing form, imploding, succumbing in piles of dust
A slight smirk soundlessly leaves us to an ink-dipped night
Which takes us, shakes us, and pours us out onto satin sheets

08/12/2013

Author's Note: My hat will never leave your nightstand.

Posted on 08/12/2013
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