A shattered

glass flask

of whiskey.

The passing

almost subliminal whispers

"Looking for Company?"

 

There is the shell

of "Hand The Hatter"

Haberdasher, since 1860

Empty now

but full of ghosts--

Fedoras, 

Derbies,  rakish caps, Porkpies

freshly blocked

to be molded

for a night's affectation.

 

Dancers

slip in under

the "Golden Slipper" sign

Followed by a fat man

with a gleaming walrus mustache

a vigilant

merchant

admiring

the "top shelf"

merchandise.

 

And when

the sun breaks through

the metallic cloudbank

that hovers over

like an omen

I see people

scurry like roaches

to all corners

as if

to take cover.

*appeared in the "ibbetson Street Press."