At 9 in line at The Dry Goat
Don he heard this from Dee:
“How many lives must it consume –
French pressed, small batch coffee?”
The faded denim of her shirt
Agreed with gentle breasts.
Don, helping synch her plastic lid,
Said, “More than one, I guess.”
She found a friend to feed her cats,
He, his clients to soothe.
A room well-shuttered they also found,
In a southern latitude.
Her flesh the years had not contained
A scar ran down his chest,
But curious lips and fingertips
With nectars soon were blessed.
An ocean nightly crashed the rocks,
Sun daily fired the beach.
Strong gods they played around that bed,
Where desire breathless breached.
Till Dee one morning sadly spoke,
Recalling “time” and “money.”
“I fear my river’s dry,” she said.
“My flower’s no more honey.”
“Dee,” said Don, lips curling down,
Thinking of the coffee,
“Could it be worse to here be found,
Felled by debauchery?”
But such are women, such are men,
And cats and clients and kids.
In sullen silence they packed and show-
Ered, their passions scrubbed, then hid.
Their winks less sly than paling.
Laptop to cell they said hello,
Genitals no longer availing.
— Poem and watercolors by William Eaton
With all due thanks to Coleridge and apologies to any and all employees of The Dry Goat. Must everything be sacrificed to art?