BACKLIT
Here, where the velvet of a black rules the
fabric of the night, here three men are smoking
cigarettes at a table for four. A slow neon, just
over their head, pulses something about beer
and moose. Two of the men hold cards, while
another is making a call. If there's a fourth,
perhaps it's to be him on the other end.
-
The perky, young girl with the tray passes by. She
throws a smile their way and asks how they're doing.
How are they 'doing?' I, who question everything
want her to ask again, get their attention, and really
rub it in, press for an answer, demand.
-
Not to be, she's gone. If these guys have wives and
families, she'd be their daughter, or good enough to
be. What can you expect from youth? A youthful
cavalcade of might and wisdom? No, I think not -
rather just another tearful wedge of the self-possessed
with emotions where their minds should be and a
cartful of frolic for brains. I get up just for getting
up, realizing I still have a handful of fives.
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