Gold crusted vestibule,
the tarnish on your ornament
says you’ve seen better days.
Never the less,
a jewelled elevator opens
and lifts my luck
to the thirteenth floor.
A pink bow-tied man in black
slicks his hair and points
me past a purple curtain;
another elevator.
Two more and I disembark
wood panelled bravado
to the sunlit marble
of Perch,
where I am not on the list
so I sit myself
at the bar.

We order oysters,
but don’t really prize ’em;
just a rouse to fit in
at a place like this.
Clam to mouth,
I admire the puckering lips
of the woman to my left.
When she’s not sucking
on a Bloody
Mary in places like this,
she sings ragtime;
dressed to the nines.
I like her and
I like her friends,
headed back to San Fran.
The people who come here
feel they belong
at places
like this.

A waitress walks by
aviator sunglasses.
She smoulders,
like Tom in Top Gun,
but I imagine
Risky Business; how she’d look
like Tom in tighty whities.
this is L.A. and everyone is
at least attractive.
The staff is no exception,
though I am.

My eggs benedict is half
decent. Good hollandaise,
but the yolks are over
I recognize the potatoes
from my grocers freezer,
cooked in peanut oil;
at a place
like this?
At least
they are garnished
with a fresh sauté
onions and peppers.

I lean on the bar
and glance over.
“This place
on its own
I tell my friend.
His omelet is nothing
special; he agrees.

Don’t come to be
on the list.
Don’t come to be
fed any bliss. But
come for the bar girl;
how she smiles, almost
as she pops a celery stalk
into your tall Bloody Mary.
L.A. from the fifteenth is
nice but
she’s the sort of view
I’d come
back for.

written on 03/19/2014 by: Matt Kane