Jed Myers

At the Cupid Club

One heart’s wires light white neon—
the thorax cabaret
night begins, a one-act play
scored for cigarettes, gin,
accordion (no piano
fits between the ribs).

One heart’s fibers hum by starlight
inhaled through translucent skin,
a blue tint bathes a shadow
swinging from a high trapeze
by bent knees, singing
minor key to accordion’s wheeze.

A pulsing fist against
its hardened chest plots reddened
lips the next act. The pulp
of jealousy contracts to black
behind thick velvet. Each squeeze
a more contorted chord.

The music shifts, a march-like
major drift—hypnosis
spreads like wisps of some white film
out from the sound-box. The keys
depress themselves, as a ghost
of love passes—one heart sees.

Smoke and moonlight meet inside
the foggy window. Cupid leans
against the glass, sips Bourbon neat,
tips his Fedora with one finger
to the dancer, singer, madman,
memory, the accordion player…

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