Days: Ken Murakami

Ken Murakami

He was marked on his wrist by urge,
the bar undergoing refurbishment.
The black walls stepped forward
for inspection. From a flimsy red
curtain, the go-go boys emerged,
one after another. They worked
on top of the bar, their feet avoiding
the glasses and emptying bottles,
their hands careful not to touch
the halogen lights in black brackets
fastened to the whitewashed ceiling,
their tight round butts lobbying and
contracting for his folded dollar bill.

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