Rowdy, plastered bachelors crowd the musky establishment,
the smell of alcohol, sweat, and cigar filling the air,
tattered wooden walls decorated with bullet holes,
the pride of Santa Fe pales in comparison to the bars in New York.
A ragtime melody echoes the place,
the all-too-familiar Joplin tune.
The music man sits in his dark, little corner;
his long, slender fingers tickle the black and white keys.
The stage is lit, stained of dried rotten tomato juice and beer.
Cheers erupt, whistles from all around pierce through his ears.
Poker games and petty quarrels come to a halt,
wide eyes glued to the spectacle before them.
Bodacious, young women in tight corsets and long, frilly skirts
spellbind the drunken men with their dance.
As high heels tap to the rhythm of the song,
the onlookers wave their Stetson hats in revelry.
No one pays any care to the true ringmaster of this circus
stuck in his corner, faded from view,
desperately fighting to be adored through his music.
All he has is his tumbledown piano.
8.30.18
YOU ARE READING
In the Wee Small Hours
PoesieLittle thoughts in prose, song and poetry. (Previously titled 'Raconteur') Copyright © 2018 by @janeoswyn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photoc...
