From down in the steam covered pulpit,

the area filled with the sweat

of the encroaching night

and heavy breathe of tenderness,

I watch Whisky Ginger wryly

smile and lift up that one eyebrow,

slightly touched and kissed

by the sweeping gestured touch

of eye shadow, brownish tinge

alluring and deep in meaning,

as she combats the noise of indifference

and early weekend discussion, dissecting

through the early on-set liver damage

and creaking prostrate

that sits in a thousand men

who fall to their knees in deference.