She sidle’s next to him at the cocktail bar. Tempts him with a challenge, shows him her new car.
But he is a wordy poet who has seen her type before. He bandies words that were meant to anger. Soon she is heading for the door.
The poet sips his nectar, ashamed at his poorly chosen words. Notices the sky, thick with feathers, his ears filled with squawking birds.
He puts it down to the liquor and gulps another drop. Wobbles on the stool, leans to swallow a final shot.
Wipes drool from his chin, straightened up his shirt. He puzzled, when last he drank enough, to make his body hurt.
Then he hears a sultry voice as if it’s in his ear. As he hails a passing taxi the sky suddenly is clear,
Quietly, he wishes, he’d not behaved like a clown, He may have dozed, the way that drunkards do. But wouldn’t be wearing a frown.
That devil can not get you, no matter what she may think. Your soul is spread far and wide, inside the words you think.
It has been scribbled on cardboard cartons. Etched on an Angels wing. Put inside birthday cards and in every song you sing.
Your soul is in each thought you think. It is dribbled in your poetic Ink.
You see, the devil doesn’t stand a chance. So pour her a final conciliatory drink.
Painting of Crow by my sister Anne Maxwell. No one other than myself has permission to copy this painting in any way, without express permission from A.M. Maxwell or myself.
This came about when I was set an exercise By Sophie Hannah of Dream Author Coaching. The task was to take a random dream and write. Nonsense and theatre included.
Thanks to Esme for allowing me to join her Halloween spooktacular press https://esmesalon.com/43-senior-salon-2019/ to join in.