It's three in the morning.

Tavern night chimes

Suits and stirring spoons.
Glass without smudge.
Jazz and rock.
It's been.
Too long.

Leather rocking chair,
Barista with septum piercing.
'Hello again.'
She smiles her teeth out.
Cigarette after sex playing in the back,
At 2 in the morning.

Old cabinets,
Japanese Gin,
Columbian beans.
Recycled paper books.
Lamps on wooden tables
Dancing around one and another.
Like a painter's whack on a brush.

Vodka bottles for ice drip,
Under the most bustling street,
By the river after 7.

Here's a homemade blend.
Or whiskey notes.
Lone counters,
Or poker tables for five.
Please keep your whispers a notch down.
But laughters are very welcome.
We close at three.
But stick around if you'd like.
The sofa wouldn't be cleared till day breaks.

Let us go then.
Passed the bridge filled with
thick necks and squinting eyes.

Through the meaner streets of this
Lovely metropolis.
Oh, don't worry.
Day walkers wouldn't notice a thing.

Through em ladies of the night,
Keep your eyes on their tits,
Not the bruises on their high heel ankles.

Squeeze through several lustrous allies and
Bicycles against the wall, on the ground.

Careful with the stairs down,
They get steeper after a few drinks.
But the light at the bottom wavers not.
They sit still behind a mosaic glass door.
By a fire warning sign.

Grab a stool for us,
I'll be there in a second.