Red Dress

Double bars and a bangin' piano,
subtle pregnant faces rest
heavy on barstools made of oak --
I am satisfied by recognition
when the red dress catches
the corner of my vision and I
spin a golden drink in her direction.
A little stammer in the lips
(I've succeeded in surprising her)
but those eyes are used to exploitation
and my upper hand is sure to fall --

Sawdust (always the best taste
kicked up by ten thousand marching
soldiers in a barroom just east
of the river Nile),
and a plate of oysters
act as catalysts on days
that spread out like lazy kittens
before the dim and itching
bite of dusk.

My upper hand is sure to fall
with her caress
and sunlight's set --
this bone temple won't collapse
but for the flicking spasm
of her electric fingers on my spine.