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.

 

Whisky Ginger’s voice

carries across the depths

of smoke and shattered glass

of the pulpit, soon crushed underfoot

back to sand, back to glass,

never ending, never silent

as she keeps playing and stirring

with the faint drop of a string

that I cannot help but notice

and relish the dream of illusion

that this woman proposes;

silently through the steam,

cutting through the sweat,

wounding the ignorant with a smile

so rare that they consider

themselves rightly damned,

Whisky Ginger wryly

picks on my emotional

state and sends me over the top.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016

Dedicated to Alison Green and Whisky Ginger Johnson.