Raining Smoke
It was always late and raining something likeEach time he stopped by the neighborhood smoky bar
For a drink of,
Once he saw her sitting in a plush red leather booth under
A neon fountain of tiger coloured light
Late one lonely night,
She spoke when she moved her tight little black skirt slit up to
There you are mister
Thought you were someone else but it
Doesn't much matter
Who you are or used to be,
I like the way you look right now
Just love how you talk, to me,
To,
Take a drink of
Each time he stopped by the neighborhood smoky bar
It was always late and raining something like . . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 356 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2022-09-02 at 22:58
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