Good morning heartache

It is October.

A dark night Manhattan sky,

orange moon full of autumn.

Sitting in a deep black leather chair in the bar, 

my name inscribed in bronze on the wall, 

mirrors reflecting midnight faces.

A dangerous woman is singing jazz. 

The mellow effect, dark smoke of her voice, 

soft leather at my back, 

cold glass in hand. 

Watching people listen. 

Good morning heartache here we go again. 

-Job

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