Stucco Skin

Waiting for a cab, out front of The Lowdown,

you know, that place, where we were always found.

My hand, it reached out, without even thinking,

for that rough stucco wall, where I’d been sinking

so many nights, with a cheap gin fizz,

and all those stupid, urgent, whispered biz.

It’s still the same, that gritty, faded beige,

like dried-up hope on some forgotten page.

Cool against my palm, a familiar sting,

a thousand bad decisions it could bring

right back to me, the shame, the wild desire.

That wall, it saw it all, my clumsy fire.

I pull my hand away. It leaves a mark.

Or maybe that’s just in the summer dark.