NIGHTHAWKS WITH TAPIRIt's that same damn noir bar. The coffee's hot
though foul. The juke-box swallows my last dime
plays what I didn't ask for half the time.
Some damn saxophonist. I'm really not
happy he brings me here.The window's smashed.
The place is gone to hell. Or are those cracks?
Some giant spiderweb? Can't say it lacks
its own strange ambiance. The stools are slashed
or maybe clawed. The barman's getting old
and almost skeletal. I wear this dress
each time we come here. No-one could care less.
That cock is tiny. Or perhaps it's cold.
I've not been flashed before by a tapir.
Perhaps I'll let him bring me back next year.
