Tom Waits For No Man

Old Man Avery sits at a bar on Fifth
under lights so dim one can barely see
the inebriated faces of the drunkard seated to the left,
or the stock broker to the right,
with the prostitute kneeling on the floor between his legs.
Avery stares through foggy spectacles
at a Puerto-Rican waitress
filling up a pint of cold dark beer.
Big Bertha they say is her name, and big she is
with long hair, black as a raven.
Old Avery smiles at her with teeth half-missing
as he asks her for another Jack Daniels.
A saxophone wails in the background,
like a woman in orgasm in tune with the piano man.
He runs his hand through greasy gray hair
and tries to slick it back over the bald spot
where his former mistress pulled some out
seventeen miserable years ago.
Big Bertha now catches Avery's aging eyes
through a cloud of thick smoke from a Pall Mall.
She leans across the bar to expose herself
to the seedy gentleman.
There's no tattooed tear here, but instead
the tattooes of four phalluses mark each globe.
"One for every lucky soul that got away," she says.
Avery looks down at his lap with a frown.
They say time waits for no man,
but time must have a sense of humor,
for the god damn lump of flesh down there
can barely stand like it could in the old days.
But alas, the clock chimes that happy hour is over,
and Avery ambles out the door to find a downtown train,
dreams of Big Bertha spinning in his restless mind.