Voices so serene, delicate lulling of
dripping sweetness and naughty whispers
beckoning as the insatiable call of the sirens.
 
disturbing the ears of careless men, fogging logic
as their song leads the way,
to passion... or plunder.
 
I've heard that song before, & I chased it, but some
other joker got there first, & was left busted up on
the rocks, his gold & his pride cut away, clean as
surgery. I've seen it happen, had the lessons shoved
down my throat, but I was always held back in the school
of hard knocks.
 
so I take my place in the smoky blue dimness of
Bogart's. music straight out of a noir film: John
Garfield gettin 'crossed by Lana, or Mitchum's heart
being crushed by the smoldering, lying eyes of Jane
Greer.
 
perched upon this slippery when wet leather bar stool,
my head turns seeking my next adventure, my commission
waiting to pay.  and there he is standing at the door
eyeing the bar like a ravenous wolf pining for a mate.
 
a sharp dressed alpha male, with lethal fangs ready to
bury them within my heart, drawing this submissive female
near.  hands in pockets, walking with ease as he
caresses the floor with alligator feet.
 
hearing a distinct clink of change, knowing there is
more there than nickels and dimes.  a demon roll of
greenbacks, perhaps enough to feed the mind and soul...
and if played right... maybe my body for a stiff price.
 
…then she sits down without an invite, & right away I'm
shellin out for watered-down drinks. she gets her 20%
commish, & all the time she's callin me 'honey' &
'baby.' snakin her arm around mine, rubbin my leg,
maybe, & I like it.
 
I know how the scene ends, but I'm thinkin I can rewrite
the script. she whispers in my ear, she twists me like a wet
rag. it's an illusion, a scam, it ain't nothing at all like love,
but I make believe, cause it’s the closest I’ll ever get…