The walk down into the Cavern
gets better every time, as glossy
lacquer simulates condensation
and dry wall billows like rock.
Lyle Link and his Jazz Orchestra
hit a nice backdrop as we sit on logs
in a circle, the bass too subtle to ripple
my Delerium Nocturnum, but present
enough to groove its way up my spine.
A few are too claustrophobic to
enjoy this completely, but I've
learned what can live in other
caves where the darkness crouches.
Here, the admittance is too high
and keeps out all but the richest
of posers, who seem to acquiesce
to the will of the true believers.
The candlelight strokes Debbie's
features soothingly, dancing around
with the flutes and clarinets, as she
sips an apple martini that doesn't match
her top as much as it does her attitude.
She sits back into the edge of the shadows,
holding the glass loosely near the rim
with the ease of someone that has seen
the bottomless depth of other caves too.
Her head shakes back and forth slightly
when she laughs, tongue set between her
teeth, which causes the passing urge to lean
over and pull her beneath my chin like
Gail Russell in Angel and the Bad Man.
She doesn't have a halo and I'm not that bad,
so my thoughts dance with the candlelight
while the moment hangs for hours, but we're just
maladjusted enough to know what comes next.
-- April 3, 2003