They call her the dive lounge diva
Her bright red lipstick is a bit garish
It bleeds into the fine lines around her mouth where she sucks
in the cigarette smoke
Her brassy blonde hair is a bit unnatural
Some would call her tight, faded dress
tacky
but she feels glamorous
especially after her third drink
She holds court with her admirers:
cabbies waiting for a fare
alchoholics
unemployed
the ranks of losers and misfits
who feel more at home in dives
than at home (if they have a home, that is)
The dive lounge diva used to be famous
She used to sing sold out shows
Sign autographs
Date dashing gentlemen
who wore carnations in their lapels
Hang about with the high lifes
the dilettantes
She had great legs
The dive lounge diva
watches a shell-shocked vet drop
a coin into the jukebox
She bets she could still belt out a tune
if anyone ever asked.
