“Smoke in a Basement” by Lyndsie Conklin
Behind a shifting wall,
in the dim of a basement,
windowless and loud
with smooth saxophone haze,
sits a booth, centuries worn
that was made for two:
the cliche of me and you.
The waitress was cultured,
perhaps because the clientele
demands an authenticity
to the poison they drink.
Or her timeless record
keeps the money stacking
on the sticky oak table
with engraved initials
from God knows when.
I believe it’s part of the appeal
that has her memorizing
chemical compositions
that keep the wooden barrel
as a secondary flavor
to all the drinks she described.
It’s all magical poetry
written on the brick walls
and in the shady corners
outlined in modern candlelight,
only stolen away
by the manufactured rhythms
played while the band rests.
But it all stays down,
heavy with late vernal weather
wishing for change
and bountiful moisture
to keep the crops green.
But this stills to the skin
and the breath of men
sipping on the drinks
they wish to hold.
But here, in the humidity,
in the darkest corner booth,
we tangle ourselves
closer together and reminisce
about events we don’t remember
but have fantasized about
due to academic interests
and moral theses scribbled
on the interior of arms.
To accompany our dissertation,
I went with a basic elixir
based with a comfort
of cherried vermouth
and a pink something sweet.
You ordered a magic trick
smoking beneath a bell jar.
The subtle citrus flavors
hid behind the fumes
that exited from the nose
before the flavor lingered
on your wired tongue
waiting to quietly divulge
all your blubbering secrets.
The band returns
and the jazzy set
blanketed the stuffy basement
in a century’s old charm,
where all the formal wear
didn’t seem overdone
and glitter shined
in the eyes of passing strangers,
as if lawful prohibition
didn’t throw away all inhibitions.
We just hid them.
now we hide alongside
the crafted revision
lined with false authenticity
in far too many petite details
including the waitress
repeating her chemical poetry
to another oak table.
Oh! What an escape
mystically crafted
in a smoke filled basement
behind a shifting wall
that may go unseen.
About Lyndsie Conklin
She/Her/Hers
Lyndsie Conklin is a Montanan transplanted to Colorado, living with her husband and cat, Beans. She enjoys getting outside, being a cat mom, breakfast foods, Diet Coke, and (of course) writing poetry and erotic fiction. Lyndsie attempts to find romance, beauty, and darkness hidden within the little things while highlighting these little, gross beauties within complex, current topics, such as mental health and LGBTQ+ and women’s issues. Lyndsie holds a Bachelor of Arts in English from Western Colorado University and a Masters of Education in Higher Education Administration from Post University. Some of her work has been featured in Soup Can Magazine, The Sleeve Magazine, Dreamer by Night Magazine, and the “We Are the West” anthology. Check out more from Lyndsie here: https://linktr.ee/lc_poetics