for Colt
Is really sold on me. She stares.
I'll bet she finds me strange,
But ten o'clock is late enough,
And every other woman who
Arrived alone no longer is, and
This one, with her tapping foot,
Her feathered hat, so Rubenesque,
In jeans he might have painted on,
Appeals to me, to some degree.
I'm tired of being by myself.
I'll finish off this final bourbon.
Then, I'll see if she will dance,
And, if she will, I'll work her ear
With practiced words of flattery
Until I've made the sale.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 43 times
Written on 2014-01-14 at 22:36
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Wednesday Night at the Roadhouse
I don't think that cowgirl at the barIs really sold on me. She stares.
I'll bet she finds me strange,
But ten o'clock is late enough,
And every other woman who
Arrived alone no longer is, and
This one, with her tapping foot,
Her feathered hat, so Rubenesque,
In jeans he might have painted on,
Appeals to me, to some degree.
I'm tired of being by myself.
I'll finish off this final bourbon.
Then, I'll see if she will dance,
And, if she will, I'll work her ear
With practiced words of flattery
Until I've made the sale.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 43 times
Written on 2014-01-14 at 22:36
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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