Thursday, September 6, 2018
Those Hazy Spirits. By Ken Allan Dronsfield
Bar stools creak and groan like my bones
a shot of Jack awaits, number 8, I think?
A lush night owl hidden in faceless crowds
spirits help to forget, but who really cares
many thoughts of love creep in and out
desires seem cold, wanton lusty dreamer
a sudden breeze clears all my thoughts
the scent of perfume and wine drifts by
essence of female genes waft in the air
like the smells of honey buns on Sunday's.
In a wink, she's gone, like an express bus
I'll get her name and number one day;
until then, another shot if you please.
Every knock I here I think it’s you left your over night bag on the floor half zipped open like you were here the bed is a lonely place...