Michael's: Closed

The doorway dripped hot water
puddling ancient, gaudy carpet.
I sat against the springs-damp wall
and remembered last year . . .

. . . Late, we'd adjourned to the pub
to meet, mix & mingle, as per the schedule.

A cameoed caricature in the elevator
promised a piano bar; the performer
sat uplevel, beseiged by older men
who supposed they were entertaining her.

You smoked, nursed a yellow drink
(screwdriver? lemonade?)
She ordered a scotch and water,
I, a frozen marguerita.

Next evening, we met yet again.
Would piano polish the day's intense poetry wash?

Conversation snaked through chapbooks,
hoaxes on editors, college teaching, demise
of downtowns Des Moines, Detroit, Decatur.

When did the subject slide to relationships?
She talked of husband, children, granddaughter;
I flashed a photo of the newest man in my life,
a 2-year-old grandson, hastening to explain
he was the only man in my life.
You acknowledged a sister who read your poetry,
a brother who did not. (No wife? sweetheart?)

A riveting crash exploded the drum machine,
softened, sequed into a lush piano-soprano rendition
of "I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You."

c 2010 lovepat press