Used to be Lola got what she wanted. At the bar in the dim lush life light, young in the satin evening. On the edge of men with all of their fear and fraud, and Fathers’ Day verse tucked into watch pockets, who missed their suburban trains with intent, who snapped their fingers and were Frank Sinatra.
And all of the girls who believed their cocktail omens, who wrote their poems with lipstick on the windshields of Buicks, who were adored but never worshiped. Did they know that that was it, to love it? Dizzy in a club on Broadway. A Night in Tunisia, and the chore of fitting whole lifetimes into a single evening. Amber stones of Birdland. Tibetan cool, when all was well with jazz, and the dark wet night could have been masculine or feminine, or a gender we don’t know.