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