Angel's Place Poem by Lee Crowell

there is a fat woman in tight fitting clothes
has a place called Little Angel's
she took me through it
the dimly lit dining room
no windows
sticky surfaced tables
heavy glass ashtrays
some half filled with the filth they attract
last night's remnants
of rejections from lust conversation
whose only goal is to get a piece
and when someone does
and believes they are lucky for it
the words become long forgotten
interest in the other person wanes
faster than the final minutes of an inmate on the row

through a door with missing handle I followed to what she called the kitchen
cook gone home from the end of his shift
but the smell of the night's efforts remained
along with crumbs of dried up scraps
tucked away from the broom's easy reach
accoutrements ignored in lieu of an empty stomach
utensils hung in their places until the next cycle
wanting for a proper cleaning

and then down a flight of bare wooden steps
no risers
just the roughness of ancient treads
dusty shelves jammed full with no concept of rotation
(a word not in the vocabulary of this room)
never heard a basement scream so loud for me to get out quick

we settled back up at the bar
a homemade piece painted in high gloss dark oak shade
sat next to my friend Henry Chinaski
while Angel poured us some shots
and when she asked me
it was a strain to find compliments about the tour
I mentioned that everything about her setup made sense
except that I didn't understand the 'Little' part of the name
and she cracked me hard on the shoulder with a bottle of Jack
and Chinaski said it was a shame to see good whiskey wasted