The Used Life

the night was a sunken treasure chest 
and the moon was always late
horizon like an hourglass—twice stirred—
tipsy as a ship shaken in salt

and the room was sideways 
with a swinging light, walls like a 
green dream made of sand, 
a single, red bar and 
two magnums full of pencils
phonograph percolating like a
cheap buzz

i leaned in on a conversation
three gentlemen with gin-colored glasses
and a lady, extra-dry, going on about how
we’re all dots between the lines 
and the truth should always be 
written in crayon or scribbled with a 
three-pointed pencil *and the man with the 
rakish beard holds up the strangest looking 
writing utensil I’ve ever seen like some sort of 
majestic star*

i took a sip of my mule and 
leaned in a little closer 
on the starboard…

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1 Comment

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One response to “Speakeasy

  1. mmerce60

    Nice poem and beautiful sketches. Congratulations to the artist


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