Colt Armstrong, Private Eye, Poetry Lover

"Great poetry my ass,"
I said to the stone-faced tattoo artist.
I handed him a copy of "Prufrock"
and a wrinkled C-note.
He eyed me like I was a surprise Health Inspector.

I took three quick belts—
two from my trusty silver flask,
and one from the waist of my trousers,
which dropped them to the grungy floor.

Then, I bent across his bench—
it reeked of b.o., beer, and cigarettes.
I looked back over my shoulder and said,
"And use a new needle, how 'bout it."

Colt Armstrong, Private Eye, Poetry Lover: The Broad

The broad was a looker—no question about it.
Her legs arrived in my office 3 minutes before the rest of her.
And was she stacked ...

I like 'em stacked.

But, I could see it right off—
she was trouble, and I wanted no part of it.
She was one of those belle dames sans merci
like Keats wrote about
...and nobody needs that grief.

She looked me over like I was Sir Lancelot,
and she was that Shallot skirt.
But I could tell she wasn't in control.
She was soused like Coleridge on a week-long binge—
and I’m not one to take advantage.

Besides, she may have had the face of The Blessèd Damosel,
but she had the bitter soul of Blake’s youthful harlot.
I told her I was booked up and showed her the far side of my door.

That night I poured a stiff one, lit a smoke,
and wondered what louse had made her that way.
Then, I pulled out my well-worn copy of "Portuguese"
and read until I fell asleep in my chair.

© Washington Snow