An Old Jazz Bar Poem by Steven Harris

Smokey old bar with an old jazz piano
on the stage
a thick fog around the room
lit by the blue lights of the ceiling
the waiter ready to fill a glass with more
red wine
splashing on the white table cloth as it bounces back out
the glass
the waiter wishes he could be anywhere else
but here
his white and black suit stained from all the wine
he's poured
the hatred for the people he has to
serve
all he wants to do is go home
sit down, smoke, drink margaritas and maybe fall in love
his job is hell
he hates jazz
he wishes he can smash the piano up with a claw
hammer
evertime that mellow jazz starts to make it's
way across the bar
his eccentric mind burns up
visions of pianos falling out of windows
and jazz pianists being pushed off a bridge at
night
he tells himself the only purpose he has is to be forgotten
when walking in the rain
he hates his life
he hates the red room he stands in everynight
and the fat ugly men he has to serve
and their beautiful women they bring with them
the job is hell
and the windows need to be opened.