Speakeasy.

The streets glow with red,
melted candles cling to cobblestone
and music floats
out brass and gold,

but the black and white
fits us like a glove,
among the sound and haitus
and strange smelling spirits,

streetlights cover us in
shadow, the snow slips under
our feet and slivers of conversation
rise out of the storm drains & cellars,

an avid quiet hum mimics
the distance between our seats
and the spotlit stage,

girls sweep by,
their dresses covered in mermaid scales
pool above their feet like chartreuse
bells,

their feet dragging slowly
over the time they've spent
on dusty wooden floors,
barrels of oak leak their gun powder,

unaware of how much time
has passed,
slipping past
the speakeasy.