Hat. A fedora tonight, I think. The air is a white plume on black noir.
Boots. Laced, no, buckled tonight, yes.
Blue-grey smoke, (not like that faggots’ eyes.)
from my cigar, or is it my pipe, no, it’s a cigar tonight,
Dominican, Full bodied, just like I Like ‘em.
A little scotch, just enough to singe, and lite.
Jazz, jazz to a slow groove, with a silky alto.
My soundtrack. Don’t mean a thing, am I rite?
A stray cat crosses my path. Lookin’ like a, you know,
not lookin’ half bad in thrift store frock, hopin’ some
Shmuck gives her more than a night. She gives me the luxury of a
second glance. But with evening fog like this
who knows what I might be.