Sleepy Rum

26.

Speakeasy.

Speak,

Easy.

Holding fast to words that are caught inside.

No real desire to voice them.

Sitting,

Waiting for shaken cocktails,

made of deep amber liquid,

touch of misty lavender.

Sleepy Rum.

I’m immersed deep in heavy curtains,

draped over,

metropolis.

New York City.

I look out,

it’s a corner street,

Triangular intersection.

I spy skaters, punks, moms, contemporaries…

People,

Moving.

As I sit here waiting for sleepy rum.

7’ O Clock.

Chimes.

Sweet buzzing conversation surround me.

My friends walk in,

Joyful hellos and sweet chitchat.

Saloon, oh what a saloon.

My mind zones out,

turning back the hands of time,

I’m no longer there.

Transported back to childhood.

To a world that was a delightful playground for the young soul.

Now adulthood envelops,

What are you to bring 26?

Sleepy rum?

Sure I’ll take it, my sweet love.

sweet, sweet rum.

take me,

in my ripped,

paint splattered jeans,

and charcoal body suit.

like some sort of vixen.

Although,

I’m gentle.

Gentle as the dimmed lights in the room,

warm and hazy.

Gentle as spring’s first bloom,

sweet and dainty.

But,

I warn you 26.

For I will never let you placate my soul’s intense fire.

Nor, will I allow you to oppress my morals,

Or cheat me into believing that my place is with the forlorn.

oh, my dearest,

26,

take me and show me,

what solace is for an adult…

and sleepy rum came.

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