Cock slap it.

It’s there in a fog of smoke. A single light, burning yellow in old age, forces its way onto just one person. You know this room is littered with a couple dozen people, but in this darkness, its just you and that light.

Havana cigar smoke. The burn of whiskey. Clink of ice. Rose perfume. Norse gods. Souls hanging in trees. All of it, such a strange fruit.

A broken voice sings tunes you didn’t know existed. The ice keeps on clinking, the whiskey still burning. Somewhere shoes step softly. The sole must be worn thin. Gentle swishing, like slow dancing.

Please, dare to not look away from the light.

—

Somewhere on the river a ruckus is being created. Hats, ties, gloves. Flutes filled, bubbling. Laughs like lace, applause like poplars in the breeze.

Leave because the noise is too soft. Remove the pointed shoes, the stockings. A need to feel the feet on any surface. Finally, they start music… that old time jazz. Twist and turn on that dock. Slightly swaying, water slapping. That diddy of piano, saxophone. You don’t think twice about flicking a cigarette into the river. You know the fish are near the surface to hear the song, know they will eat used tobacco.

—

Sweat in the air, stagger home. Shadows not following correctly. Trees growing over the lights.

Bending over to grab a big stick. Walk next to picket fences, dragging wood against. Make it a song. Quick slow, quick quick, slow. Forward and back. Tick tick tick. Fancy steps in blurry shoes. Cracks in the sidewalks like scars.

Please say you tell its story if you remember in the morning.