Cruzen Rum Shack
Sunday. Well before Happy Hour.
Palm trees sway like masts where
a blackbird rides against cloudy crests.
A windswept man strums his acoustic,
rasps It’s better than drinking alone
Pop tops percuss across the pool,
wafting memories of the Wit’s End
eons ago, when smoke blunted floodlights.
They bask, oil simmering on bronze skin.
1 = 10 . . . behind shades my eyes
sculpt her supple shape.
A few distant embers glow, fade.
Sing us a song you’re the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Last chorus.
- Peter Venables 2018
Peter Venable has written poems for over 50 years and attends Winston Salem Writers’ poetry critique group.
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