We Ain't No Miller and Nin
His eyes press through the bar's night-light. I decide
to show him a trick I learned at thirteen: how to curl
cigarette smoke around my finger. Who needs long hair
when you've got lips and hands? Honestly, I only come here
for the jukebox; this single dollar gets me three plays
and one extra if my fingers move fast enough.
I see him interrogate the bar-keep. If he's looking for my name,
I've faked it. This jangling drink is my pink wig. Everything
about him, though, is real. Straight down to his torn pockets
and worn palms. I wonder if cracking
remind him of his mother hitting the floor.
The only alchemy here pours, then empties.