Bus Number Sixty-Four

Jim sat below the salt at any table
and drove a yellow bus for union pay.
But when the moon was out, he lived to play;
in bars, he owned the stage and every table.
He danced with every skirt and wore a sable
while others held their breath for their own day.
Each night, his eyes went hunting for new prey
and drowned in drinks and gifts that were off-label.

Jim cared not where he sat at any table
or that his bus was number sixty-four.
With his mirror, he searched for Cinderella
like a prince would do in some old fable.
Jim partied every night with flirts galore.
A life with booze, his brain oozed mozzarella.