Her body is a speakeasy.
Loose and slovenly, floors littered
with last night’s shelled seeds.
In the front, a welcoming smile.
Dark interior, bare bulb flicker
on unmasked faces, glitter on the rocks.
Men come to her for drinking,
the two-buck scotch in the bottom
of her belly button, the salted shots
in the corners of her eyes.
Women for what they’ve lost and found.
Solace. Two listening ears. A bit of sour
mixed with sweet.
In the way dark, you find the real stories.
One-eyed Jack who ran away with the moon’s
shine. Two-eyed Jack who ran away with
nothing at all. The talking parrot who only says
Go away, Sally. No, don’t go. Every glass laden with lipstick
in a shade of sorrow, every bottle half empty of despair.
A speakeasy is her body.
Not everyone can find it.
Not everyone knows how.
Travel past the tattoo of the painted lady,
toward the plaster-pink nails.
Turn right at the ten-penny scar, thread through
the smatter of broken freckles, and veer northbound
at the wet nape of the neck.
You’ll need a pack of cigs to bribe the bouncer,
a gentle hand to pry the door,
but most of all a taste
for that which burns and burns again.
NOTES: Didn’t use the prompt. Enjoyed yesterday’s title so much I thought I’d reuse it, sort of.
Read today’s prompt by Bill Alton (as well as the inspiration beyond poem-a-day) over at Not Without Poetry. My goal is to write a poem each day in less than 20 minutes, and without additional revision beyond the writing experience