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Tropic Nights
by
Frank Fields
copyright 03-26-2008
Age Rating: 16 to 127
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The barkeep looked all round,
The place was pitiful empty.
Piano man sat slumped
Dancing girls sat sprawled.
A lonely couple on dance stage
Barely moved to juke box serenade.
The place was dim, the lights were down
A long bar counter to serve your life.
Everywhere reeked of stale beer
And one too many shots by one too many men.
The doors were open, the night was still
Heavy tropic night hung like misted rain.
No one knew and no one cared
The stories each one could tell.
One saw his youth, full strong
Poured down his empty glass.
Another saw her night at prom
Pretty as a picture, smelled like a rose.
The jungle guide saw his prime
Wasted on too many lonely stools.
The dancing couple saw their loves
But with another, long ago.
And so it went all through the place
Each sat or stood, and lived a past.
Last round call, the barkeep called
Which was a joke, they never closed.
Open from the early morning sun
All through the day and through all night.
Feeding wasted, wanting souls
Who cared no more, but for the wine.
Rattle my life's dice in leather cup,
Hope for seven, get boxcar and the ace.
Double down the hard way
Six to show or eight
Pay me high or pay me low
The cup of rattles shows only grief.
Another here, he called
Whiskey chased with wine, you know.
I'll roll you for the dime
And always let's have your time.
The barkeep knew and had the shot
Placed it on the many rings
The wine was next, another pattern
Cheap Chilean red, but went down smooth.
Acrid smoke of cheap cigars
And cheaper cigarettes hung round.
Like death's own pallor
Waiting to be found.
But none did see, or seeing, cared not.
Their lives long past, their spirits trapped
The death knell tolled within each one
Awaiting victory with its final bong.
Set 'em up again, good Joe
I feel tonight's the night.
Hey there, stranger, wanna play
Another round for all, is all.
The stranger moved away, one stool down
But left a buck, another round to pay.
Even here, in God's forgotten hole
The Devil played with all, to win.
Double down the hard way
Six or eight to show.
Pay me high or pay me low
My cup of rattles wants to play.
No seven here will win
No eleven to claim the prize
Only boxcars and the ace
The rattles in the cup are cruel.
To live a life and never win
Not the least prize claimed, only sin.
An endless round of days and nights
The barkeep as my only friend.
Double down the hard way
Six or eight to show.
Pay me high or pay me low
My cup of rattles wants to play.
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03-28-2008 Richard Reed Jr
I hear the angst of the poet's voice come through loud and clear. Like Mike I think the imagery was so good , I could see, hear, smell, etc everything that was going on in the poem. One does not need a Vulcan mind melt. Your verse are better. What more can one say?
Good write my friend,
~Rich
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03-27-2008 Mike Gallimore
This is what was left on the cutting room floor of Casablanca. Your poem has so much atmosphere -- I can taste the smoke, smell the beer, hear the rattles, see Sam slumped over the piano, and hear Bogey pacing around in his upstairs office trying to decide what to do with the letters of transit. I love stuff like this! Great job; thanks.
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03-27-2008 Walter Jones
What a write, so perfect so much, will stay in my ind, repeating, echo sound on sound, just for a second I comprehend, then I am back in the place again, sounds taste, lost depression fate, slipping through my fingers the taste of whiskey and words, faces so many, words even more, been there, hard to leave, masterful write.. Walt
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