Two martinis in, then three
as you split a sundae with Joe the bartender
waiting for the cigarette girl to
"come 'round again, babydoll. I need ya,"
twirling a toothpick
and winking like a pro.

You touch her cheek and light up
as the band picks up again.
Waiting for the crest,
you snap along and lean in close.
Riding it, coast-side and eighty flat.

It sweetens if you wait for it.

As you wait you drown a little
feel your lungs fill with the
baritone's pressure and with
all the useless feelings you
checked with your hat and coat.

And the horns come in and melt you
right there at the bar, all set to be
mopped up with the cigarette ash and
gentlemen's calling cards
when the chairs hit the tables

"Helluva night, Joe. It's a helluva night."
"You haven't touched your sundae, friend."
"I'm high a lot, Joe. I forget things."