Obscure Bogart gestures
and Hemingway
in the good sun
wounded and stoic hours
take their toll
like this hard sidewalk
cracked beneath
worn shoe leather
and if you’re lucky
some woman
somewhere
might have a tattered soul
to patch your pummeled one
in the dance
between drinks
and betrayal
and you walk on
stealing looks at strangers
just so and dangerous
gliding in your sharp fedora
looking for her everywhere