I drink a Saturday night Sazerac
Without fever and all these ladies
Are dressed like its 1970
And the dumb DJ plays foul disco
The couch is made of sand
And there’s two mirrorballs
A lesbian waitress with breasts
Like cushions bites a double cheese
Burger next to me
And I raise my hard earned hand
And a black girl of short skirt
And legs of smooth muscle
Eyebrows arched
Says ‘Hold on boy.’
She puts the tumbler on top
Of my notebook and pouts
As if I hadn’t seen enough
‘What you writing?’ she asks.
‘The history of cocktail waitresses.’
She leans down so swell
Her titties are magnificent
And perfume like a dessert
Wine starts me off
‘How much have you had to drink?’
Women interrupt moments of play
With too much banality
‘Je ne me souviens pas.’
‘Vraiement, smartass.’
Hand on my thigh
She takes my blue pen and
Puts down numbers
‘I’m done at 1 and live
Two streets away but you
Can walk me home.’
‘Should I…?’
‘There’s plenty to drink at
My place, but wait ‘till then.’
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