The Duke’s hand comes up to my elbow,
a soul searching strength behind the shake, judging.
He drops my hand and rubs his face, one
cheek, then chin, the other cheek, eyes glinting.
Marshmallow décor with cotton candy accents surround
the huge book, he seated on a pillow he stole
from a whorehouse in Texas.
What’d ya think, Duke? Am I in?
One look. Don’t just stand there,
get yerself a drink.
Whiskey.
Duke's a dog, right?! ... thanks, Chris I.
ReplyDeleteIs it John Wayne or the Duke of Windsor?
ReplyDeleteThe poem came from the thought "What if St. Peter took a break and John Wayne took over?"
ReplyDelete