to drive down
to 14th street to peruse
the street walkers,
drive around
the Mayflower hotel
to see the fare there.
what was this world
of painted ladies?
we were just old enough
to drive, and to have
enough money
to buy a tank of gas
and food at the window
of the little tavern
where they pulled out
palm sized burgers
from a drawer,
fried the day before.
there was always
one instigator leading
us down the wrong path.
Ike, or Jimmy.
cigarettes rolled up
in their sleeves, self inked
tattoos on their arms
of skulls, or bees.
a year older, but so much
more wiser
than their age.
was it wisdom, perhaps
not. the world had just
caught them by the tails.
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