That old club where we used to hang out
One of the legs was crooked
holding up the canvas awning.
Sign said – Live Music at the Greenwich
You won’t find a brightly painted toucan
or an autographed guitar hanging there
only agent Egypt with King Tut and Isis
standing guard over bottles of Grand Marnier,
the bar mirror reflecting hunched shoulders
and cocktails served in plastic cups.
It don’t look like much
with its jammed up stage,
its crooked red velvet curtains.
Then all that soft feathered tom-tom,
boom boom on the bass,
sweet sound of the sax,
curls your toes
Transfixed and tranquilized,
you’re transported outta here.