there is a fat woman in tight fitting clothes <br />has a place called Little Angel's <br />she took me through it <br />the dimly lit dining room <br />no windows <br />sticky surfaced tables <br />heavy glass ashtrays <br />some half filled with the filth they attract <br />last night's remnants <br />of rejections from lust conversation <br />whose only goal is to get a piece <br />and when someone does <br />and believes they are lucky for it <br />the words become long forgotten <br />interest in the other person wanes <br />faster than the final minutes of an inmate on the row <br /> <br />through a door with missing handle I followed to what she called the kitchen <br />cook gone home from the end of his shift <br />but the smell of the night's efforts remained <br />along with crumbs of dried up scraps <br />tucked away from the broom's easy reach <br />accoutrements ignored in lieu of an empty stomach <br />utensils hung in their places until the next cycle <br />wanting for a proper cleaning <br /> <br />and then down a flight of bare wooden steps <br />no risers <br />just the roughness of ancient treads <br />dusty shelves jammed full with no concept of rotation <br />(a word not in the vocabulary of this room) <br />never heard a basement scream so loud for me to get out quick <br /> <br />we settled back up at the bar <br />a homemade piece painted in high gloss dark oak shade <br />sat next to my friend Henry Chinaski <br />while Angel poured us some shots <br />and when she asked me <br />it was a strain to find compliments about the tour <br />I mentioned that everything about her setup made sense <br />except that I didn't understand the 'Little' part of the name <br />and she cracked me hard on the shoulder with a bottle of Jack <br />and Chinaski said it was a shame to see good whiskey wasted<br /><br />Lee Crowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/angel-s-place/
