"I was six-four, a hundred and twenty,"
Danny told the interns.
"A bartender. I had the perfect job
for a cocaine addict.
"You see, we could drink
all we wanted,
but after a while,
I'd get kind of sloppy,
sloshing somebody's highball
when I set it down on the bar,
knocking over the coffee cup
we kept the lime wedges in.
"But with a few lines of coke
under my skull?
I could go all night,
quick, efficient, agile,
the life of the party,
"until I woke up next day,
my head pounding
like I had a SWAT team in there
breaking down the walls of my head."
Nancy could have kicked herself for her indiscretion,
mentioning to her boyfriend Sonny
the old guy at the bank, Mister Hughes,
one of the regular Tuesday customers,
inviting her out to lunch last week.
It had been an innocent date,
Mister Hughes old as her grandfather,
a delightful meal in a posh restaurant
she’d never have been able
to afford on her own.
“We can use this to our advantage,”
Sonny said, eyeballs like cherries
rolling in a slot machine
to a sensational jackpot.
“A lonely old guy
sniffing after the young stuff.”
“It’s not like that!” Nancy protested.
“He’s just a sweet old man.
Leave him alone, Sonny!”
“Riiiiight,” Sonny replied,
the calculations still spinning in his eyes.