Poetry

 

 

Amelia B. Winkler

Noir Bar

So, this guy walks into a bar
and sits down next to a blonde.

"Hot enough for you?" he asks,
gulping a cold one.

"You better believe it," she says,
flicking an ash into a dish.

The guy's dressed to kill;
the doll's a little worn.

"Lemme give it to you straight from the horse's mouth:
you're one swell dame."

"I hear you," she says,
glancing at her face in the bar-room mirror.

"You wouldn't be handing me a snow job, wouldja, Buster?"
"Not on your life, babe. I'm a straight shooter."

"So what do you do?" he presses.
"I mean, when you're not here."

"Shuffle papers."
"And you?"

"Ditto," he responds, sipping some more.
"Where do you hang your hat?"

"Tinsel Town, you?" she asks.

"Ditto.
"Your place or mine?"

"Whaddaya got, big guy?" she asks,
keeping her cool.

"You're gonna think you died and went to heaven."
"Don't hold your breath on it."

The moon is blue; the night is young;
the rest is history.

 

Giddy Over Art

Do you Guggenheim?
I Guggenheim,
and if and when I do,
I start at the top
and go gaga
over its ledges' edges,
being careful not to fall over
them, though.
I simply gape and gawk
at all the foreign guests
and geezers
like me
who gallop from top
to bottom
going round and round and round
in circles
grasping art
in the snail's gut.

 

 

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