Watcher In The Night

 

danceramong the bright lights as the silver

shadows sparkle through rain drops

landing on his face and sliding to

lips that taste such bitter-sweet of

memories that left deep scars yet

comforting at the same time.

 

He see’s the neon sign beckoning

to come in as the Barker squeals his

song come on in to be enticed and

entertained by pretty woman of

the pole and sit yourself down, dry

off while the heat from those naked

bodies entertain your thoughts

and help the whiskey go down in

secret corners as you watch

others go down.

 

He looks up to this pole dancer with

grace like a panther she slides her

slinky sensual long-legged body

around this magical pole with

wanting eyes that pierce a poet’s

damp wet soul.

 

His lips are dry yet the whiskey

stings the cracks left there from

long ago while chewing them

huddled in a corner of his room

while mother was being beaten

into submission on her bedroom

floor with the broken handle

from a broom.

 

The days and years went by as he

climbed from the sewers of life

and streets of shame and needles

stained with leftover crack from

others who had died by their own

hands among the stack of piled

garbage left in back lanes

tossed to feed us hungry souls

lost in ourselves.

 

A poet once a Streeter living from

hand to mouth ate his way around

the fringes of the dumpsters closest

to the finest restaurants because

you see he was a connoisseur of fine

leftover appetizers entrees and

chocolate covered deserts that

patrons couldn’t stuff into their

fat wallets instead they left the

over’s to the Streeter.

 

He knew the first to grab or beg

for those waiting delicacies would

get through the night with belly full

and if luck would come their way

find a half emptied bottle of wine

to help wash it down with their

pain.

 

He rose to heights of brilliance and

mastered his trade after long hours

of midnight oil spent to climb the

ladder of success and be idolized

and patronized by peers for the full

recovery he made and reached,

lofty goals and shared his wealth

with humility and pride.

 

Yet this night walking in the rain

alone knowing where he had come

from yet wanted to be lifted up by

woman with the passion of dance

with busting, blooming, coy, artistic

form beauty, and this poet sat

dreaming in front of them while

knowing all the while money would

be given for the show and women

of this dance would leave and fill

their habits sniffing snow in the

darkest shadows from the pole.

 

He could smell the perfumes and powder

puffed upon their naked bodies knowing

and making men swoon and want to steal

a touch or two and not be caught and

tossed from this den into the wet streets

outside this neon paradise by their

hired goons.

 

Away from these women on the pole who’s

only interest was to capture your eyes

and have you dig deep and lay the

money down between their thongs

as they slip their fingers watching

you they slide them slowly down

to pull the dough so sensual

from their thongs to little

sequenced purses wrapped around

their ankles flashing like the neon

lights that brought him in to be the

watcher of these women on their pole.

 

He could buy the best of anything

yet the neon signs still draw him close

to be a watcher and a dreamer while

these women swirled and slithered

towards him sweating in his mind

while peeling off their clothes he

peeled off the hundred-dollar bills

for entertainment nothing more

a vision was to be that watcher

and remember all their moves.

 

So he could write a verse two

or three and build them up as

a poet can and leave to feel the

gentle rain wash away dreams

left with the women of the

pole on the streets of neon signs

and silver lights that pierce the

night they let the sunshine into

a lonely heart while remembering

a time when he had nothing but

the clothes on his back with

dreams of rising from the streets

and becoming a watcher in the night.

Thank you ladies of the pole.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.


Comments

Watcher In The Night — 9 Comments

    • Hello Audrey, so nice to see you here. Yes indeed the mood was certainly peeking through. I remember those poles very well way back then. lol

  1. Seems to be a wonderful 2..fold poem. The sensuality described so well alongside the heartwrenching story of the past. Loved it. (I am so glad to have my computer back. I have at least 20 or more posts in my inbox from you and I started reading from the oldest except for this one.)

    • Yes it was certainly heart wrenching, it brought make a few memories from my past. I’m glad to read that you have your computer back and working, looks like you have quite a few emails to look at. lol

  2. A great nighttime journey through the teeming streets and bars and nightclubs. As I read I had in my mind a James Dean like character with a leather jacket collar pulled up high, strutting through the streets at night and then just disappearing among all the neon. Like one of those old time Hollywood movies.

    • Well you wouldn’t be too far from your imagination about a James Dean type of character, he was young, restless and a rebel for sure. He enjoyed the neon that’s for sure and those ladies were an extra bonus for sure. lol

    • We can write of our experiences, weep alone, cry over our regrets with hope that our legacy will not blemish our character. I lived a questionable existence at times, I took a few bad turns in life, some I regret miserably. Yet here I am still alive? we each have our own journey on this life of existence. I have worked hard at being the best I could be, shared parts of my soul with some and screamed inside at those who hurt me deeply. I hold no malice now, it’s the past, let dead dogs lay where they must. I move forward each day, placing one foot after the next. When it is my time to stumble, fall and remain there, I know it will be over. Knowing in my heart that I was a good man, failed along the way, lost important people in my life, yet finally found peace within those losses. I will continue to write, that’s all I really have left my friend. May peace have found you and blessed you and yours. Thank you for your kind words, I read them with understanding.

    • Yes it was part of life experiences, the streets, the hookers, pimps, dancers and the magic they performed on it, always in clear view.

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