Eds note: The post I thought of at a night of fun with fellow bloggers watching Matt at Zaphods':
I fell down drunk in an old hooker's Bar. They wiped me clean, the hooker's did. They picked me up. Tossed me onto a cold Square Corner. I lifted my soul and struggled to the One Lucky, where I sought a bar stool and a free beer.
'Beer Mugs' Moran poured me a large draft."You look beat, Tortelli," he said.
I told him what happened, how my money was taken by ladies' hands. He gave me an expressionless look and walked away, leaving the dark drink behind.
A sip of beer touched my lips and I thought of old hookers and conjured a poem inside my head. I took another sip, now the heartache had gone. But the poem inside of me remained, like a Basho verse--a frog jumps into the sound of water.
Poetry Pantry #392
2 hours ago