I drag the smoke into my clothes.
Across the bar a familiar hand hits the table.
People in black lace and tall boots,
wearing themselves thin,
wearing it all proudly.
The crows calling outside,
but they can’t sing louder than the saxophones.
The people howl over the noise.
Blurring together in a tectonic way,
in a way that elements are supposed to collide into,
make love to,
and then leave one another.
Where do I fit into the scheme?
Am I the table he hits
or the glass of whisky he downs?