Beguile

in Poetry

Another little
black dress
Xmas mixer
but my intoxicant ,
straight up

a sin
at these shindigs
It now seems
as the hostess
eyeballs my lack
of a highball

But, I wet my
whistle sans
bruise
As the Season
inevitably leaves its lesions ,
as certain as one hemline
will appear… to entice

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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