The gritty, smooth voice of Tom Waits plays, as the spoon of sugar to wash down my cigarettes.
This night is slow moments.
This evening sees me staring off, and wondering where I've put my lighter.
(The one that's on the table in front of me)
I'm looking at a scene the modern Picasso would paint; rough like those brushstrokes. Rough as Mr. Waits' vocal chords have gotta be at this point, as he's 'walking Spanish' down my soul.
Jazz rhythms preoccupying
my thoughts, no stress.
Just my cigarettes and this low lit patio and piano,
in the city of trees.
Enjoying the small things,
pacifying my temple,
and happily gulping down smoke; with the stares.
Im not really seeing much of anything.
I love my vision;
it spares me spots in scenery, and then focuses on random
That scruffy dimming treeline,
outlining coming dreams,
right past the mess of evening traffic on the street.
(my eyes do this magically)
I put my feet up in the empty chair across from me.
'Only tables for two' I think, in the same voice lamenting a tattoo tear.
That "one for every year he's away, she says", that Waits with baiting breath grooowls!
[I think] 'More chairs for me'.
I sink back and relax even further.
'Picasso painted lonely so well'
I note to myself, as I notice a gouge in the architecture in the building right next door, that I thought would use a lot of
oil to put to canvas, were I to,
and the waitress brings me
my check, without even a word.
"That's my girl,
This place has the best service!"
I whisper inwardly, as I tip.
I tap my stubb long burned out, and the remain in ashes fall to a tiny cloud of dust in the wind, but not the meaningful kind.
Standing, I tap the folder that has a nice surprise for that [not very nice] waitress [who seems like she gets me],
as she scans my table like a hawk hunting people who are dine-and-dashing, and the green out of its top looks to ease her.
I tip-toe outta there,
Off into the ether....