This kid finishes his first night
of washing dishes and steak knives
when he hangs the apron and walks
into a room with short ceilings and long,
very long legs. He comes up to
their waists. His image of the blues
pales in this gray. Cigarettes are tongues
flicked and ashed over. Louise Misha,
he will remember that name, leans
into a moan. A yellow shower of dust
settles in her hair. The piano slinks.
This kid, unsure as most, drinks
too much. At this moment he could fall
in love. He might decide to be late for
the rest of his life. As if he will never
want to leave the Kitchen as he considers
the dark stalls in the bathroom, his face
sore from the brood and puke. Remember
that jazz? Regret and desire were bacon and eggs
swallowed with smoke. It tasted like morning.