Kevin S. Hart, click here
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Twenty years younger than the guy buying shots
He offers her one every time she pours
She knocks him back with a smile
More than one customer
Pants at the bar
Hounds lined up for the kill
Heartaches, headaches, an occasional clown
Drink beer and liquor until stupid sounds sane
All put tips in her jar
Suggestive cigar smoke
Slurs her name
Is almost the last thing she needs
Except to wake up
A horror story remembered
Next to someone
Who looks, smells, has carrion breath
Like her father.
A college education can’t be worth this crap;
She grabs a rag, wipes up another spill.
Maybe she should wear stilettos, leather bustier,
Treat them with the disdain they crave
Instead of old jeans, tee-shirt, hair pulled back…
Surely they’d like that old, worn-out nightie
The one with the faded blue bows falling off
Saved these past eight years since
Her father was sent away
If someone plays that last song on the jukebox again
She’ll scream, break glass, and walk out
She tells herself this every night she works
Keeps everything in perspective, you see.
The rush is over, diet pills have helped her
Stay awake; sharp, but not rude and her tips
Look to be better than a usual Friday night
Here comes tonight’s band, this shift is done
Tomorrow, then it’s over until Thursday comes
In between, school, friends, thank God no boys…
Daddy may have shown her how to mix great drinks
Kiss like a pro, take pain as it comes
Sleep through terror
But he cured her of one particular addiction.
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|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|One helluva write...with killer imagery Kevin!!
|Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
|Hell of a trip you took me on here, Kevin S. Hart. Didn't quite know whether to laugh or cry or cuss, finally just settled back for the ride. Reminds me of one I wrote . . . Prodigal Father.|