I listen to the drag queens in the bars,
who purse their lips and wait for drinks to come.
Their cocktails clink, and gossip turns to stars.
They speak of actors driving gold jaguars,
who grope their breasts, pretending to be dumb.
I listen to young drag queens in the bars
keep bragging of their boudoir repertoire.
They shimmy, dancing to the beat made from
their cocktails clinking. Gossip turns to stars
who gulp Veuve Cliquot while fresh caviar
spoils, and crisp toast points change to bread crumbs.
I listen to tired drag queens in the bars
tell tales of midnight trysts in police cars,
hands cuffed behind their backs. They softly hum
as cocktails clink. The gossip turns to stars
who’ve scotched their gayness in ghostwritten memoirs.
Night after night, I sit with my drink…numb…
and listen to old drag queens in the bars.
Their cocktails clink. The gossip turns to stars.
Joe Eldridge is a poet and martial artist, writing and training here in the heart of Boystown. He recently had three poems published in the literary journal, Apocalypse.