I was never much of a club-goer when I lived in LA. I grew up in Las Vegas, a town saturated in fantasy and glowing neon lights. Perhaps for this reason, I preferred sipping on a cocktail in more intimate settings… dingy dive bars, open mics and karaoke clubs. “The Drawing Room” is a poem about all three.
Someone sings a Dylan song, crooning blues in a crowded room
There’s no stage, but it’s understood that the man with the mic leads, although
Women drinking whisky, Men with beers
As Mr. Blues takes his bow
Giggling girls whine a chime by some pop princess of the past, followed by
Wannabe White Rapper’s Delight,
Obnoxiously obvious drunken frat-boy in a backwards cap slurring Sublime, and
It’s been a long time, been a long time for Mr. Rock and Roll.
Slamming Sauza shots as part-time DJ shouts out to “all the birthdays in the house!”
The room erupts with hoots and hollers as people pop blue birthday balloons while
Mr. Rock and Roll and Mr. Blues step outside for a cigarette.
Then she takes the stage, a lounge singer’s soulful sounds, sipping on something red as she spells R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Eyes and ears directed at the Diva and she knows, but when she’s done
We forget and its
Another shot, another song
As the night goes On and On and On and On…