Brass Monkey

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Stale beer, smoke, and sweat

 

ride the dancer’s undulating waist

as wistful eyes chase her wandering hips.

 

On the counter my dad falls asleep

with lips the color of wet concrete

 

and a frothy grin that marinates

his chin for the barmaid’s kiss.

 

On a ripped leather stool I drink

coke and smoke candy cigarettes

 

as I’m schooled on being the man

who drones wordlessly in his sleep.

 

Shawn R. Jones

Reprinted from Womb Rain

Finishing Line Press 2008

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