The Wood Allen

A sound of music playing in a quiet café.
On a forgotten street in BK.
A saxophone playing;
Not elevator-style but a little ‘Woody Allen’.
Fear is knocking at my back door.
Even after that warm smile and a flirty-friendly cup’o Joe.
Change approaching train,
And me as I try to listen…
Trying to glisten just what the fucking is going on here?
You caught me off guard love. Threw me through a loop and back again.
And here now I stand.
Verklempt and haggard.
If I’m honest, I think I’m smitten with you. With it. Or the idea of such things.
That always works out better anyway, doesn’t it?
Fantasy fiction and fact finding missions gone astray.
“Should I do it?” trumped by “Could I do it?”
And wouldn’t you know I blew it?
Right out of the fucking water ma’aw!
But it’s not what you’re thinking…
I didn’t keep my cool… staring there at you and that rotten-cotton crocodile smile.
You saw right to me.
Like you already knew me, and wanted to break some bones.
Casting stones and reckless groans.
I am at once regretful.
Wishing you were here… Weren’t here.
I’ll see you in a year. Hopefully. Maybe. Not never. Not ever.
Mustache madness.
On the tongue and on the run.
From all that I know.
Moving fast and moving slow. Moving high and moving low.
If it doesn’t burn child, she says.
You’re not doing it right.
Oh that ring of fire.
And you’re one big fucking liar.



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