the baleful primal

cigar touching my lips as I wait patiently in my booth:
dimmed lights, velvet curtains
holding out for Lady Truth.
she went to seek youth, 
but it's experience she returns for.
the haze fogs her out
but I see her plainly at the door.

"I'm sorry," her voice smoky.
"Don't be," I reply, raspy.

she sits in my lap at my beck,
and ignores her phone calls.
the hostess shuts the curtains,
when I say, "that will be all."