THE BLACK CURTAIN

By D P Robinson

Where Junks ride idle on the swell

of a shimmering Siam Sea,

while rock n’ roll anthems broadcast

through my dark, and drawn cotton folds,

“Hello, what’s your name? Come inside,”

invites my smiling curtain girl.

Daring to enter the snug saloon,

blind in the blacklight, gentle hands

guide him to a green cushioned seat.

His eyes adjusting, there—seeming

to float—an island stage, where bare

dancers glisten, the walls mirror

every slow sensual motion.

When the impact of initial

wonder clears, her olive limbs curl

around chrome, his golden dream stands

in reality before him.

Strange perfume hitting his senses

without a touch, he feels her heat;

praising her with a purple persuader

they leave me—for a long-time night.

#darkpoetsclub