In the hours where most sleep 
I sit in a purple lit booth 
something beautiful catches eyes as they adjust 
neon lights flicker as it dances…I watch
soft music plays the soundtrack of inhibitions leaving 
fake smoke to cloud judgement so what is seen is seen 
what is felt is felt
the night, the morning, make love to born a single time 
where mistakes are suppressed by the high of letting go  
bartenders, over there gossip, whisper, and glare  
still tolerant of these patron games
but only until the last tip 
nothing good comes of the hours between night and day 
it is where fantasies live in the moment 
and shadows hide the truths of deception 
for the thrill of finding places that the world forgets about
are games played by strangers in pass
with lost souls, bruised hearts,
and access to the wrong medicine