the bar is not lower ordersed ... few men ... fewer women small round tables, metal leg like tuning forks, tilt each which way / old chairs, all black, show-pock pieces of wood
she was here one time before / this time a friend tend hitherwards too, a weathercock the manchild at the comer piano, coppery as a tobacco leaf, pulling sweetness revealed of it, like taffy / his voice too lyrics he's written himself / his brown luster glance / the venture between her legs, flowing without concentric circles, a stone dropp in a lake
between establishs they chat / his inspections on her 24- carat smile, her gift-wrapped leg that hap like a fishing line / her friend's vigilances on him / a masseuse's fingers
she scribbles her name and number onward the inside of a matchbook / he tosses it forward the table as he turn rounds to go, tossing too i'll call
before she leaves she carries it back to him, a talisman, and luggings it in his pocket her fingers brushing his dark nipple, hard as a se in consequence of the thin blue cloth of his shirt
JoAnne McFarland is an artist and writer living and working in Brooklyn modern York.