Black suede booties, patooties

Kicky heel, two-inch and tapered down to a tack, ankle-high

Odd things, but soooo comfy

Black velvet Betsey bolero jacket

over a spandex mini

Those shoes spoke to that dress and said yessssss

But the best part wasn’t the shoes

Nope, it was the socks

Yeah, good old cotton rolled socks

Bright red to match her lipstick

It wasn’t the getup that got her the gig

In truth, said the bartender later on

it was the shoes, propped up on the bar

like they needed their own shot of bourbon

He said the socks didn’t hurt, either

(c) 2024 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

The Bushes of Central Park West, a nice little gay catering largely to older men, operated off the lobby of the Park West Hotel on W. 73rd in Manhattan. I lived upstairs – this was the place I lived at the time John Lennon was shot up the block, the place I cited in the past poem. Bill Dance was the bartender, a one-man one-liner joke machine, and one of the sweetest guys I ever met. Sometime, remind me to tell you the story about his stock company on the road doing The Wizard of Oz in the 60s. Bill was the one who got me the gig, and we were friends until his death in the mid-80s. He knew Christopher Kennedy and Jeff French. Such a shame, all 100% sweethearts. RIP Bill Dance. Amy


Posted by in Humor, Jazz, LGBTQ, Makeup Tags: