Waiting for the Muse at The Setting Sun
Posted: 15 May 2022, 22:51
Waiting for the Muse at The Setting Sun
Can I buy you a drink?
I ask as she finally arrives.
She sits across from me
and I order two martinis,
hers large enough
to swim laps in.
“Please, dah-ling,” she says.
"You’re trying too hard.”
What’s with the Lauren Bacall accent?”
She shrugs. “You like it, no?”
She changes character
as often as I swap out
mediocre rhymes.
The bar’s clientele,
taxi drivers and waiters--
poets with ambitions
of winning the Nobel prize--
watch her the way
amateur astronomers
follow a night’s comet.
She closes her eyes,
like an oracle speaking
for someone who’s passed.
“A forlorn moon
sails among falling stars.”
That’s a good opening line.
“It’s yours, Bobby.
Now fold it into a poem.”
She stands up.
Don’t leave now.
Seconds later she’s laughing
with a dude at the bar,
tattoos writhing up his arms
and neck. Five minutes later
they leave together,
his hand on her ass,
my heart a hamster racing
on a greased wheel. Shit.
What does she see
in that guy?
Can I buy you a drink?
I ask as she finally arrives.
She sits across from me
and I order two martinis,
hers large enough
to swim laps in.
“Please, dah-ling,” she says.
"You’re trying too hard.”
What’s with the Lauren Bacall accent?”
She shrugs. “You like it, no?”
She changes character
as often as I swap out
mediocre rhymes.
The bar’s clientele,
taxi drivers and waiters--
poets with ambitions
of winning the Nobel prize--
watch her the way
amateur astronomers
follow a night’s comet.
She closes her eyes,
like an oracle speaking
for someone who’s passed.
“A forlorn moon
sails among falling stars.”
That’s a good opening line.
“It’s yours, Bobby.
Now fold it into a poem.”
She stands up.
Don’t leave now.
Seconds later she’s laughing
with a dude at the bar,
tattoos writhing up his arms
and neck. Five minutes later
they leave together,
his hand on her ass,
my heart a hamster racing
on a greased wheel. Shit.
What does she see
in that guy?