There is the woman
with reddened lips
her eyes are
little-black-dress-worthy
but the sequins on her jacket say
hello,
a beautiful, inebriated,
cherry-wine scented hello.

That folky
stone faced kid
makes potato-lentil soup
and he could
blow your mind
not because of the soup though,
that part tastes like dirt.

That girl wearing
a collared shirt
and thick dark glasses,
she is the human manifestation
of the other side of your pillow,
and she has no idea.

The ginger kid
understands more about
people than you
ever will,
which is how he was able
to make you shoot wine
out of your nose
that one time.

And the guy with the
scruffy beard
and the microphone
-well, he breaths funny
but the stagnation
in his voice makes
his poetry sound like
really
gentle ***,
every syllable
nibbling
at your inner thighs.  

And while you'r being whispered
into this false sense of security
theres a grumble
seeping
through the floor boards
from the guy in the shadow
with warm honey
in his voice,
and he doesn't pretend
to be free,
like the rest of us.