Out of Palce

I was not in my right mind, I think.
While on vacation in Constantinople,
I thought I found a nice local café
Where I could snuggle up with a dry martini.
I thought I’d found a cozy place,
But discovered my mistake too late.
I sat down at a round table, with only one chair,
And then my surroundings began opening up to me.
My waiter smiled fiercely and cheerily took my order,
While something in his eyes suddenly filled my head
With thoughts that would make Oliver Stone cringe.
I should have left after discovering the hair in my chowder,
But I shove improper sanitation to the backburner.
When I notice a row of Armani suits, stuffed with grumpy folks.
Their presence only becomes clear when I see that they sit,
Before rows of arcade games with buckets of change.
The air alive with the cha-ching of antique slots and bling-bling of video poker.
At first, I thought it was the silent droning of the neon that turned on me,
But the walls are actually covered with familiar colors;
Hues from my childhood that I had forgotten until just that moment.
That palace looked like Roger Rabbit had a fit with a can of paint,
Then beat all the folks here with the brush that made him.
Building to a mild panic, I glanced in another booth,
Where a young boy blew out dozens of candles
Arranged like post-war headstones
On a cemetery that tastes an awful lot like red velvet.
In a fit of fearful bravery, I moseyed quickly out of there,
But not before leaving the waiter a tip:
“Get out of this place.”


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