Dressed down and fit to kill

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Dressed down and fit to kill,
baby’s home in bed and I’m
on 7th Avenue; one bartender
with reference in search
of daily bread
and a pocketful of miracles.
 
In money bars
women smoke elegant cigarettes
and smoke rises from red red mouths
like the ascending souls
of dying peacocks.
 
But in low down joints
old faces hover in the dark dank air
and the bar butts cough up clots
of grimy clouds which
ceiling fans shatter.
 
Flat beer for flat mugs.
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