Night Life

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It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I have been really working on completing a writing project and researching a new one. I also have been dealing with some complications with my blood sugar, which, hopefully, after a full day at the hospital will be fixed. Unfortunately, on top of working full-time my body has not had the energy to post half of the great posts I had planned. I’ve learned, though, in recent years I have to listen to my body first. I watch people often with envy, as my body does not have the energy it once did. Even when I was in great shape, I was starving my body and looking that way took a major toll on my health. The moral of the story, I’m learning, is you are your own person and comparing yourself to others leads to nothing but trouble. When I wrote the poem, I picked to share for today, adult life was really just this idea. It was this mixed bags of movies, music, etc. The poem is sort of this montage of what I thought a ‘night in the city,’ might be from beginning to end, from good to bad. Now when I read it, it sort of reminds me of one of those nights where things start relatively simple and by the time you’re in the cab ride home, you’re thinking, “What the hell happened?” or “I can’t believe I could witness this many things in the night.” I think the narrator in the poem is omnipresent, they can see all the good/bad that is going on. It’s not just one person but collectively what the city sees as going on within its walls. So, it’s a good Sunday poem, as if you were in any of these scenarios, you’d probably wake up and say, “What the hell happened last night?” Even though, it’s my montage of what a city feels on a Saturday night from a teenager, I still like the poem. I hope you do too. I am glad to be back posting and look forward to bringing some more of the posts I was planning for the summer and just haven’t gotten around to. Hope all finds you well.

Night Life

Sticky fingered lover boys
shoplift touches and glances.
Flashers transform songs into
high impact erotic energy workouts.
It was an offer that completed a dream,
a thought that opened horizons.
After drinks, couples blurred like cyclones,
with “don’t try this at home,” legs
that left the dance floor and somehow found Sinatra.

Outside Limo Rats wait for a pick up,
all of them rebels for a storm
in love with cocktail scene seventies ingenues,
who still wear burn marks
branded by their disco loving husbands.

I heard him lock the door and say,
“I’ve been waiting to do this to you,”
like Kennedy’s killer must have whispered
in Dallas on that sunny afternoon,
making all Barbershop duets become trios,
in an attempt to replace the disappearing trinities in the world.

In that space of time,
criminal intent was written all over bathroom stalls.
We’re all born to do it, shoplifters,
with the means to pay for love.

Tonight the Ice Capades have taken off their skates,
loaning the blades to this guy
in the white T-shirt and tight blue jeans
sitting on the women’s bathroom counter waiting
for some high impact black and blue.
“Elegance is attitude,” she says,
giving her sister a peck on the cheek
as she hops into another man’s pants.
Pinups with revolver’s smiles.
London suede meets country life.

On the drive home,
a man’s hand touches the breast
of a stoic woman sitting next to him,
and we all feel dirty.

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