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

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