A Night at the Café

Sitting by the candlelit table,
with a company of guests;
I feel almost like Mr. Gable,
with charred cigarettes from the west.

Disco lights are flashing,
as the amplifiers protest;
a glass of zombie is brushing
off my unhappiness in jest.

In the dark cold night we sit,
with deep senseless conversations;
the people’s eyes all meet,
with bewitched, bewildered imitations.

The night hosts a good life,
so much for the old Beatles;
spirits with spirits revive,
writing the modern fables.

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Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 11:00 PM  Leave a Comment  

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