A tear drop of martini seeps from his
eye
White gloves and interpretive leaps across the dance floor mid-week
Hangover froth coats the rim of his coffee cup that he clutches tightly every morning
Dragging his feet to a slow waltz
to face to daily grind
Sentimentality of a postcard is lost in black matter
But the wise birds above know what messages to signal
Occasionally he slips but remains poised, slipping the waitress a cheeky wink
Another week and he takes his body downtown
Where the moonlight leads him to paths unknown 
Oyster Pearls 