Apollo on Saturday Nights

dark soul ruminating through quiet amber bulbs
the humming of the air purifier
a city that requires payment to park
anything anywhere
your car on this asphalt
your ass on this chair

the muted trumpet should be playing
and somewhere off of fifth
you hear it echo from down the concrete steps
somewhere smoky[you know the spot]
[the liquor is cheap the crowd is still] the company sways
you slug down two fingers of something with a
soft copper octopus taste

there, it’s all alright
Apollo is resting for the day,
shining his lovely painted toenails
across the hardwood floor
scuffing the bar with his sandals
up up up they go
like a pair of beautiful golden ladies
snaking up his calves
caressing softly, the not-so-hairy oval on each leg

He’s leaned back in a chair
sprawled out, a God in every sense
His smile is one of the only sources of literal light
in the dusky bar. He takes a sip of his Malibu Sunset
let’s the saxophone ease its way into his skin

as do I, I know that these gods among men, they
show up in our lives only to remind us that
we are as human as we are

it is a long time coming with this thought
but let me tell you, Apollo frequents that echoing
muted trumped bar on Saturday evenings, and I’ve
never seen him unhappy with a performance.

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