Lonely City

lonelycity

The barman polishes glasses in the old hotel
where love does not go,
watching lost causes dragging their woe.

He notices Luke lolling on a lounger
lisping lonesome odes to a lewd idol,
wishing Lady luck would bring a lusty, busty thing
to bellow his burning inferno.

He watches as Lizzie spies a luscious bulge of taut muscle.
A pheromonic tang
~ a sly, anarchic, chemical bomb of sex ~
floats across the space between them,
slipping beneath her skin,
jingling in deep, secret flesh,
to tinkle within.

She longs to lock her legs around his thighs.
Licking her swelling lips, she thinks of reddened kisses,
of teasing touch that slithers,
of silver rubbed into burnished bronze tickle,
of tangled, sticky limbs slapping,
of ripples that build into crashing waves which break
bringing grand, bruised release.

Lizzie lets the seconds tick
as she plans a chance meeting with this winsome man.
She notices his Guiness,
and brashly thinks to buy him a drink.

Luke lazily raises his load, loathe to leave,
still wishing Lady Luck would bring a lusty, busty thing
to bellow his burning inferno.
He sees a lovely woman, leaning at the bar,
and risks a step in her direction,
but she is lifting two drinks,
and one of them is Guiness,
so he thinks she has male company.
The barman looks on.

Lizzie swizzles, sees Luke leaving the hotel lounge,
head down, heading for the City,
deaf to the bell of the rumpy-pumpy bus.

She swallows her wine,
follows it with the pointlessly bought pint,
and wallows in lustful self-pity, while the barman looks on.

Luke listens to the low lullaby of Lonely City
where love does not go,
intuits the ugly grumble of unsated lust,
and he wishes,
that just for once,
Lady luck
would bring
a lusty, busty thing
to bellow
his burning inferno.

Lizzie buys a bottle from the bar.
She goes home alone.

The barman looks on,
longing for her unlikely love,
but knowing that Lizzie is a lustful child of Lonely City,
where love does not go.
Tomorrow, or next week, he will leave.

<> <> <>

This odd little dirge wafted by, so I caught it and wrote it down for The Daily Post #Luck.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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