The Lady of the Night

By Kyle Skaggs

Beguiled by black bodycon, enveloped by voluptuous velvet, pinned with a pearl.

voluminous curvatures cascade, she is a walking waterfall.

men tremble in her wake.

the luminous moon scintillates her candied red lips, luscious with lust.

milk chocolate skin shimmers and swirls

seeming to melt in the humid heat.

sashaying up the street, she approaches a speakeasy.

the bouncer, bemused by such beaming beauty,

succumbs salaciously, as if she was a succubus-  

(boundlessly benevolent eyes bend the mind to do thy bidding)

may I enter, please”?

her tantalizing tongue sequesters his senses,

her breath both coaxing and intoxicating.

“y-y-yus missus, h-havin you ‘round’ll be gud fo b-biddnus, yus’mam”!

enthusiastically pawing at the oak entrance, as if entranced,

he gave himself a splinter with his eagerness.

her dress twirls through the ingress,

leaving him passionately poignant.      

dim incandescent filaments splatter a soft yellow glow across dark mahogany.

plumes of rough cigarette smoke waft from flitty fingers,

tangled with rancorous laughter and jubilant Jesus jitters.

the cacophony ceased at once, replaced by beady eyes and rubber necks.

some men got risky, and stared too long,

only to be dowsed with whisky

either by wife or mistress, neither wanting their man too frisky.

slowly, conversations continued, low and guttural,

perhaps too conjectural.  

she eyed an isolated corner of the bar, riddled with char from forgotten embers.

sitting down, her plump rump molds over the sticky stool,

handfuls of tiger stripe spill over.

a boisterous bartender barks bereavement over spilt beer.

she catches his attention and his dejections dissipate,

his silver cross dangles in a dazzling dichotomy against the gloom,

enough to make her demure.

with adverted eyes and a curled smile, she spoke, soft and husky.

may I please have a glass of rum, with a squeeze of blood orange, if you have it”?

as if ordered by God himself, the bartender rushes briskly hither and tither.

eyeing the vicinity, with shrewd vindictiveness, she seeks nourishment.  

moseying back, the bartender attempts to woo the woman

by giving her the beverage for free.

it is to no avail, she tips him handsomely,

he kicks his heels in a spree.

she sips her concoction, letting the fumes fumble into her oval nostrils.

she relishes the tang,

patiently waiting, anticipating.

(you get what you want if they want what you give)

a man saunters in, steaming with self-loathing, his clothing is ragged, and his hair is clumpy.

this depressing sight begladdens her heart,

she will not mess up this time.

he sits near her and orders a Sazerac with extra absinthe.  

gratified with a warming belly,

his eyes drone about lazily,

seeking something to look at.

officially on the prowl,

she sports her most insinuatingly seductive demeanor

and stares

waiting for his oscillating eyes to meet hers.