Resting his handsome banner
over the abyss of the bar,
with his nightclub pose
he scans the smoky panorama
of red lips and crossed legs
that jump out of the chiaroscuro scene.
Biting the beat
he slides in,
sneaking incisive
between the swaying
of some unsuspecting legs,
justifying his moves
with the saxophone's call
for the smoothness in the waist,
and in the words,
words
that will become howls,
in an unknown room,
within the damp sheets
that will fly like clouds
over the limbo memories of dawn.
That's when you can see him,
passing by your house
when you go to work.
Drained, and not so handsome anymore,
rolling up his sleeves
as he walks astray down the street.
No comments:
Post a Comment