The Last Drop lost its joie de vivre in 2009— Dani
enforced this, acting out a script (tease/taunt/topple)
written for her by South Philly goons. Why I'm now
bemused by the gaucherie of Dani's gestures— cheap,
black, low-cut dresses worn to reveal ample cleavage,
flaming red hair styled always in plummeting cascades—
is that in '18, no one's titillated by anything, let alone Dani—
negligee stores derelict. How I pined for her on those nights
the grim reality of the recession still hadn't sunk in— as though
the revelation of her breasts could deliver me from shadows
which impinged, but (it seemed) possibly only temporarily.
Once, in her Pine Street apartment, she bothered to walk
around before me in a bath towel. Why was I a gentleman?
The twist in the tale was to stick the thing in, & win.
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