::03:18:08::

::: 35: Westside Tavern Muse :::

I overhear them, Rosco, Claudia and Barbara
While sipping the lazy New York afternoon stout,
Waiting for my muse.

They talk of Africa
“The only snakes we saw were dead.”
“The lions ignored us.”

I take another drink and speak to my muse.
I say I could not relax in the bath alone like most people,
With a good pulp and wine or beer for that matter,
So I had a shower.
Stone-well cold.
Perhaps I could lay in a tub with something French, the sex trade and Swiss wine?

Now Duchamp; he could relax, conjure the sea by wearing shells
Where he dreamt up gifts of immaculate, iridescent galaxies,
Sent to his lover in miniature.

Maybe he had the thought while simply breathing
That she would skip a note into his pocket while at the café or the bar
But it was foiled by the likes of
A Chelsea girl’s work is never done.

A private note in the pocket of private moments
While the cold shower thinks only of the time I am in,
Having, having the water remind me of the sea, of you,
My muse.

I reach over the N.Y. Post, the swizzle sticks and take a bar napkin.
I write a private note:
The only snakes I see are dead.
The lions ignore me.

The tavern door slowly sweeps open sun as I place the napkin in my jacket.
In she walks, my muse.

Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla

Bookmark: