The glass bar-back worked over by the drummer, broken synched
rhythm his moment while the guitar and bass took a break that
evening when the French couple came in, elegant in mink and
smoke and grey silk while I drew the edge of something skittish
like myself, Bic blue strokes tracing movement – mine, the band’s,
Shelly’s dancing crushed up against some man she just met, drawn
tighter, the bar holding every body’s note. The edge of something
young, awkward, waiting it out inside the band’s van as we passed
a joint around, smoked as if I knew – then police lights and sirens
sobered me right back past the Harleys back into the bar in time
for their next set back to John Lee Hooker’s one bourbon.
Thin blue lines on napkins what I drew to keep things close and
distant, line not mass nor shade knowing too much time spent on
shadows meant like Kore I’d have to stay past closing.