I was on my way home with my tight red jeans.
I stopped by the bar to see and be seen.
It was a Monday or a Tuesday so I knew she was working.
“Free drinks!” I thought, and entered in smirking.
Even the Frenchman was there draped over the stool.
Drinks go well with stories, and his were so cool:
the 70s, the 80s; the art and the drugs;
the parties, the ladies; nothing to shrug.
I tuned in as if it were great radio show.
I sat there for hours like I had no where to go.
The words from his mouth, sort of an oblation.
Tales from the past delivering inspiration.
The Frenchman and I, we wandered off into the snow
for another vodka tonic — where else should we go?
We arrived next door to a place called The Paddle.
How did I know he’d want to strap on a saddle?
I was scared and I panicked so I ran out the door
not wanting to bargain for anything more.
I took my tight red jeans down Avenue A
and when I got home I was so happy, I prayed.