Coming out of a bar <br />and into a metro car, <br />drowned liver ready <br />to birth it all out <br />at any minute, <br />I sit and watch <br />two foreign mammals <br />bump into each other <br />over some manuscript, a novel <br />with a rotting cover in red and green, <br />appealing enough for him <br />to sit next to her <br />and open his mouth; <br />he wants to know; <br />She sparks up with giggly shyness <br />and talks back, <br />just like that! <br />A book! <br />Not a mini skirt <br />or a hot sexy wink wink, <br />just yellow aged paper <br />binding them to each other, <br />conversing in an improvised <br />bar where the only light fixtures <br />are shuddering fluorescents <br />and the only intoxicants <br />are words printed long ago. <br />High-tech still has a long way to go <br />to match this kind of beauty.<br /><br />Bera Tremoz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-school/
