Tonight, shuffled into the two-man elevator, down 11 flights, out the door, around the corner, bar insalateria, filled up with fasion-types, maybe I'm one of them, called on a beverage, and began to be only slightly amused.Feeling a bit on the low end this evening. Wrote a little poem when I arrived back home. Huh? Also I think now, there is an earthquake, or something fierce outside going on...

Rembrandt smoking a cigarette squeezed inside a corner bar.
On holiday from worried decisions for the moment.
A dame that never called back waits for his call instead.
A game of cat and louse.
Ever so studdering the words barely taught.
Through bleeding smoke-filled eyes he gazes the room.
The women that enter capture a piercing reflection.
Seconds like minutes, you're either here now or there forever, forgotten.
Too many bad faces, shudder and drink.
Call in replacements to fill up the spaces.
Outside the window, blows wind indoors, when opening the door.
It's cold, scarf weather neck warmer.
Sulky cheekbones turn pink.
Pouty lips quietly think, on the stone ledge.
Shes not alone, but her eyes are.
Unamused and waiting her man's nightly consumption consumed.
To go home in a high palace and sleep on her side,
eyes rolled, deserving of gold, but feeling sold.
Old comfortable, unescapable bond of nothing, anymore.
These days, unlike those days-old days.
Now it's all a haze.

-L. MATHERS.
goodnight sweetheart, well it's time you know.