whisky and smoke

syncopated claps on the old skin

the top of the count is were the and is held
the e is the sixteenth before snapping
the sticks and the crash
and the swish and the ting

have you heard her sing is a slippery and slurred question at the bar that leaves his fingers sticky after asking sincerely and his friend nods after a cigarette drag

there's the thin stale whiff of whisky in the smoke lazily drifting from his lips

the beat shifts to the 2 and 4
and sweet harmony like honeydew swims in the air as soft as moonlight through last night's milky way

his charming smile thins until it is no more
 
there is a memory on the edge of his clouding mind blurring like last night's moon

his eyes darken and his fingers rim the high ball glass as familiar as the legs of his lover gone

the beat surprisingly eludes him as his grey eyes find the stage where electric colors shower the microphone barely touching her thick red kissing lips

the whisky dilutes in the ice like a memory choosing to fade while the holder helplessly resists

another nod to the bartender and the band plays on

Reviews

[Chris]

We bring our hurts and wear them as a second skin
and pause -
remember how (though not as often - where) to breathe.

The STARE sees all
and nothing -
shares what we are and aren't...
lasts the lost lives
left behind as our shadows still move.

You bring-it well man...

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed this poem. In my young days. Whiskey and smoke was needed. I liked the honest words and the logical ending. Always a pleasure to read your work. Thank you for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote