Poetry Thursday

There's a group of writers that do poetry every Thursday. I miss that, so I'm playing.

A Daily Conversation by SA Clements

His boots hit the floor
Like dull castanets
Muttering that he'd once been something
Whispering secrets of glory days
And the scent of mink oil on leather
And the lies that are
Hidden in the glare
Of every eight-second buckle
And the tart kisses of princesses
That never once let him touch their hair.
The floorboards know him
And answer each step
With a whiskey creak, a hop-stained groan
The musty grunt of corn starch and dust.
She nods to him, smiles, the stool his now
Like it was yesterday
And will be tomorrow
The glass bottle clicking on the bar
Louder than the sound her eyelashes make
Every time she blinks the smoke away.