Back To Tangiers

Because she knows the Continental well,
We book room 208.  Its balcony
Gives us a harbor view.  "This bed could tell,"
She groans, "some tales.  It wasn't poetry
Those filthy, phony sons of bitches spewed."
She means the would-be Beats, the wannabes
(No, not the likes of Kerouac) she screwed
Right out of college.  We enjoy the breeze
Past midnight.  "There were parties round the
     clock
In every villa. Kiff was wheeled in bales
Right off the dock.  And don't you ask which cock
It was that knocked me up.  My memory fails.
It's been some twenty years." I uncork wine,
Some heady stuff.  A distant hawker bleats
His hooker's attributes.  "To you," she toasts.
"My handsome, bastard son. I've checked the
     sheets.
Come fuck me in that bed and bust my ghosts!"