At the Russian Restaurant and Disco in Pittsburgh

 

 

Brute disco pounds, pulses,

daffy silver ball turns, sparkles,

boobs bounce and blunder,

sequined dresses chrysalis

bulbous bodies. Bald

heads, tight pants,

spavined bellies over belts

like bags of fresh-catch

spew over gunnels

of the over-the-hill.

Chanel No.5 fumes, lipstick

fumes, vodka, and cigarette

fumes, skunk through the hall.

 

What a good time!

 

The sparkling ball turns

like the only unhatched

egg laid by a citizen

from a disgruntled galaxy

filled with fetid spores

that, once hatched,

turn everyone into narcissists

whose mission on earth is

to get laid. One leers

at a woman who winces

from the gleam of his gold

necklace and Rolex.

She thought he hadn’t heard a word

she’d said, but when he asks,

“Just how Catholic are you?” She

realizes he’s been listening.

 

 

Charles W. Brice is a retired psychoanalyst and is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (WordTech Editions, 2016) and of Mnemosyne’s Hand (WordTech Editions, forthcoming, May, 2018).His  poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Atlanta Review, Chiron Review, The Dunes Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Sport Literate, SLAB, The Paterson Literary Review, VerseWrights, The Writing Disorder, and elsewhere.

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