The sound of grating chains shatters through space

And scratches the edge of thought,

Twisting shoulders in the chair as we laugh.

Music, whimpering, a hollow lost beat,

Somewhere in the smoke among tan arms.

Light clink of ice and glass and gold bracelets

Politely ignores the crying saxophone.

Shrill exclamations of matrons, now and then

Fade into the smoke and leave unseeing eyes unmoved.

Bubbles turn and tickle in the breath until a giggle!

Travels mouth to mouth

And joins subconscious screeching

Smothering the weeping music.