So late...

So late…

It’s so long after midnight it’s almost time for the bread man.

I haven’t stopped shakin’ my tambourine in time with a dude who’s playin’ blues harp riffs to a room that’s past liquor hazy.

I look over at a gal who’s been mid-floor movin’ her stuff all over, all night:

I thought she’d be an amazing pole dancer or arsonist,

then wondered why she was still alone.  The Adam’s apple….ok…..

No problem. Not my thing.

Clearly, no one’s thing in this joint. Maybe that’s why he’s here. Safety in the open

and far away from homophobic Bronx Italians and Albanians.

Me?

I’m not alone (and no, wiseass, the voices are not here tonight. They’re off. It’s Saturday.)

I have my beer, a tambourine that shakes in my over-prescripted hands and a

GPS still looking for the id in my girlfriend’s libido.

We’re good.

We don’t leave yet because it’s pouring rain and we’d never get a cab

this far uptown even if Lion roars just a couple of gentrified streets across from this place.

Only in daylight though.

Now, it’s night and in the mighty jungle the lion sleeps even as off duty cabs driven by

cell phone toting whispering Sikh’s who never come up for air are fueled in Queens:

there, on Steinway Street or Queens Boulevard, gas is cheaper and they can get

fresh Darjeeling tea instead of burnt coffee.