Down At The Roxy
I saw my reflection in the glass table top
down at the Roxy wearing too much mascara.
Your fingertips branding me awake
when our song played.
I feasted on your hot breath and
controlled movements upon the waxed tile,
stimulated by the black tie and her perfume.
My plastic hands reached
into your dinner jacket for a mint,
discreetly placing the twenty
within the satin folds.
It was the bands last set,
and it was right on the tip of my tongue.
But I just knew you tasted like gin and strychnine.
poem by Sara Fielder
Added by Poetry Lover
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