Dancing with Johnny
John Vick
Tap or bottle,
Tap or bottle? she asks,
but there is no real choice.
The Durante-faced waitress
looks like trouble.
It’s only a gin joint,
but I predict water ala carte
won’t stop her
from trying to rush me.
Sophisticated silk jacket
over cotton Wal-Mart camisole,
she hoofs it around
to Folsom Prison Blues.
She serves me tongue
with a side of slaw,
bottle of black gunk
ketchup.
I dine quickly,
to keep the tongue
from singing along.