Sans Paddle

disco-dirt

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Into the lounge he shuffles,
feet never leaving the floor.

If they’d turn the music down
you’d be able to hear his joints.

You’ve seen his kind before –
shirt open to here, honest-to-god
gold chain – looking for a target.

Even his pick-up lines creak.

 

It’s another Quadrille Night at dVerse Poets Pub.  Forty-Four words (just like the epitath for the Old West gunslinger: “Here lies Lester Moore, Four slugs from a .44, No Les No More”) is what’s required.  And the magic word tonight is, “Creak.” 

30 thoughts on “Sans Paddle

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