Past the gulf of low-rise jeans
and painted smiles
the bar opens, engulfs, stares, and stumbles.
(And winks because they’ve shared your pain).

Syrupy twang of Sheryl Crow jolts me back to frigidity
as the Chairman eyes up Norah Jones,
makes a crack about pipes,
(which ones I don’t know),
and offers her an olive.

Conscience looms like the elephant;
lurches forward, and winks too.
Jack London’s clear thought gives way
to ambivalence, morning haze and hilarity.

Murder, rape, cannibalism, and sex
hold attention momentarily, but
laughter reigns.

Literature