the cabaret owner

blue, a dusty Sunday morning hung over
fog and horns
shutters need raising
butts litter where dancers caroused
lifting spirits, skirts, lids,
trousers drop, there were tubas,
his minor key eyes
need sweeping.
there are few bodies buried here

green, beyond the study windows
vast square yards fescue and sod
during day lit life squinting
seeking shade, children singing
under epithermal rain

gray, dinner out of box
no more cigarettes, no wine, no TV
moon is free
cheapest entertainment
next to conversation, if you can find some
at the Cabaret

clear, missing stanza:
owner has cleaned, band is due, they are razor dressed,
kind but serpent like with messages rarely
in agreement,
dripping venom
out spit valves
blessing resolved discordance

red, they each touch him
his palm
his shoulder kneels,
walking talking, brass and wire,
weightless soft shoes
tapping
behind the bar
at the Cabaret

”salt n pepper,
keep on doin it”