Of course, there was a time you didn’t always get your way. Back there when my heart was not so easy to invade.”Tori Amos
can I get your number?”
We’d been raising armies of wit
shots of something citrus fired,
unruly curls deployed as a decoy.
“Got a pen?”
I uncapped it with barred teeth
and scribbled beneath
Paynes: better off here
than across the street,
the dive bar napkin reads
with cheeky courthouse avoidance instinct.
#1 was all I wrote, the next battle
cry in my throat.
retreat isn’t always defeat.
The dancefloor’s where young girls
find their fleet.
Saw you years later,
cocktail lounge subdued.
Goatee, that was new.
You said, “Hey, I think I know you.
The chick who gave me the #1.”
“Like the middle finger.”
I laughed lifting mine,
a loaded gun. “Glad it stung.”
We give our cigarettes a flick,
toast to things that stick,
the calvary of age and
the tactics of our wild ways.
© khartless 2022, All Rights Reserved
Written for Flashback Friday #52 Wild Thing.
Photograph of Paynes Biker Bar