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.”