In the smoky, late-night bar of the mind, the city sleeps like a dame with a secret. And I! Stripping a martini with my tongue and lips.
The moonlight’s just a shiv, glinting off a wet street, and the last streetcar clangs its lonely tune, headed for the end of the line.
The clock on the wall ticks like a dripping faucet in a low-rent apartment, keeping time with the restless ghosts on the fire escape.
A neon sign bleeds a tired red onto the chipped paint of the walls.
An empty glass leaves a perfect circle of despair on the bar’s sticky surface. An alibi is airtight, but the soul still feels the weight of all undone deeds and unspoken words.
Shadows on the ceiling dance a slow, sad jazz. A ghost in the city’s quiet hum is thought of.
You are tucked in now, in a bed that holds no room for regrets.
To the restless pavement, the sirens wailing a lullaby for the damned, the ache in the gut,
and the smoke in the throat, a tired promise is whispered into the empty night.
Goodnight, Doll.
May sleep be cleaner than this whole damn town.
