scenes from a getaway car
another late Thursday night ... and I’m wondering
why I bothered to use expensive cologne
when the stench of the bar drowns it out
me and four other passengers tonight...
in the getaway car...
escaping the crimes that eat us away,
one of my brethren looks at my dark-skinned gait
I acknowledge his staunch Mediterranean jaw,
lines in his face like a topographic map
the cuneiform of worry, from the old country and centuries of killing
here she comes! fake blonde along the linoleum counter ... this driver that calls everyone ‘love’
how are ya, love?
what will it be, love?
’nother pot, love?
she’s at the wheel now ... this getaway car of many campaigns ... used, abused, restored and rigged
and everyone wanting a window seat
you can name your poison
but you can’t choose who’ll sit next to you
and Christ! the punter on the other side
he’s got a face like the dartboard in a country pub
he’s taken a few hits over the years
he’ll definitely be in for a long run tonight
an interesting companion for this trip
then the driver asks me what cologne I’m wearing
what ya been up to, love?
what ya been doing?
and suddenly I’m riding shotgun in the passenger seat
getting death stares from four lonely men,
all dreaming of ‘love’ and that supermarket blonde rinse
everyone taking in the fumes of the bar
as they do every other night between the blue flashes
of either greyhounds or trotters
and the fading smell of lamb chops and countermeal mash
everyone running and trying to win
on two legs and all-fours
bets on