He Quoted Heathcliff, and Spoiled My Shoes
I wandered way down cobblestone,
deep in miasma exhaled from lungs in the mourning.
Maddening mind could only contemplate this suffer age, so
flitting feet followed instinct, and landed me at a dimwit dive-bar in Old Town.
I ended up supping on a ginny Gin Rickey.
Were they out of bourbon?
Stood in the nook
at the billiards table, a beatnik boy-toy of
Nimoy stature floated me a
hawk-eye look; affixed a fag to
his bottom lip, and
I just knew he was the type who
Wuthering fucking Heights.
© 2018 Kindra M. Austin