Piano Dance Poem by Pasha Satara

In wing-tipped shoes, my father danced
on the black keys of a stained piano
like a drunken exhibitionist,
chasing shadows like the crows
picking at his stubbled brain.

He pulled hard women in
with the smooth hedge of his flat-top,
where they would mold to him,
magnetized by the lump of clay
at his crotch.

His hands played asses and breasts
like a saxaphone, an unowned
and borrowed instrument he didn't pride,
dirty fingers pressing dim
in the blinking, neon light of the bar.

Beer mug never empty, shot glass never low -
one drink my brother's milk,
the next our daily bread,
the rest a weight that sank
my mother's wedding band for good,
thin gold in cloudy amber,
wet amongst the bitters
at the bottom of the barrel...

just another stumble down the lane,
another shove down the cellar stairs,
another jaded bruise beneath
her confused, feline green eyes;
beer mug never empty, shot glass never low -
just another night,
another night.