“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